The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  “Apparently her sisters were not similarly affected.”

  “No.”

  “They showed no interest whatsoever in her death. They would not even discuss it, as if it would embarrass them.”

  “I’m not surprised. Come.”

  They walked outside to the carriage. Julia held on to Nellie as they walked down the steps. The moment they were on flat surface, Julia sped up again. Nellie had trouble keeping up.

  “Mathews, the Beeches, on Bellevue Avenue.”

  Mathews helped Julia into the carriage, followed by Nellie.

  “Not long after Washington’s visit, the capital of Rhode Island moved to Providence, along with the seaworthy traffic. Many of the Hebrew families left Newport and moved to New York. That included Emma’s family, in the 1830s. But the family wanted to maintain a connection to Newport. And so they built the Beeches.”

  “Their home has a name?”

  “All the mansions in Newport do, my dear. But theirs was the first.”

  They rode along Bellevue Avenue and arrived at a three-story mansion with a wraparound porch and deck that Nellie estimated from the number of windows to have eight bedrooms. It was one of the largest homes she had ever seen.

  “This was their summer home?”

  “When Emma was a young girl of twenty, we would have tea and parlor games here every Monday. The house was very warm in those days, filled with laughter. The war was over and everyone was free of serious worries. But then Mr. Gould tried to corner the gold market, a great panic set in, and the mood turned somber again.”

  Nellie thought better than to tell her that she had met Gould and he had actually provided useful information.

  “And then came the incident with Mr. Seligman,” said Nellie.

  “Yes. And her work with the immigrants. Emma rarely made it back here.” Julia referred to the house with a sweeping gesture.

  “This is the dichotomy of the Lazarus family, and indeed of many families in America. You have the side that helps patriots and runaway slaves and the other that lives like robber barons. And each is embarrassed by the other.”

  They arrived at the dock for the ferry to Orient Point with little time to spare. On the carriage ride, Julia had indeed sung a verse of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” but insisted Nellie sing along with her. Julia’s voice was strong, the conviction coming from deep inside, on this song that Nellie had sung hundreds of times. Nellie’s heart swelled at the experience, and her spirit soared like never before with “His truth is marching on.”

  Just as Nellie was about to leave Julia to walk onto the ferry, Julia took her by the arm and spoke earnestly.

  “Your task will not be an easy one, my dear. Hilton and Corbin are powerful men. But do not despair. If we could defeat slavery, anything is possible.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Montauk Indian

  On the ferry ride to Long Island, Nellie read Emma’s final letters to Julia. The steady hand of the manuscripts at the Lazarus home was now shaky and weak. All the spirit and strength had been sapped. The last letter was particularly heartbreaking:

  My Most Dear Mrs. H.:

  Please excuse my brevity. I lack the strength to convey all that is in my heart, and for that I shall never forgive myself. I so appreciated your recent visit. Your kind smile and even kinder eyes eased my discomfort beyond description. You have always provided such joy and inspiration.

  Though I sadly fall short of your example, know that I shall always remain, Your faithful servant,

  Emma L.

  A wizened older woman with chestnut skin, pencil-thin wrists, and weather-beaten features had met Nellie at the ferry in Sag Harbor, the main fishing village on eastern Long Island. Though her clothes were tattered and her belly protruded from malnutrition, Maria Pharaoh had a royal dignity about her, with an erect posture and direct gaze. Nellie offered to treat her to a meal or some cider in a whaling inn, but Maria did not want to spend their time searching for a place that would allow her inside. Her guess was there would be none. Instead they sat on a wooden bench by the dock on a chilly fall day and even so drew sullen stares from the white fishermen.

  Maria waited silently while Nellie read through a packet of newspaper clippings Emma Lazarus had compiled for Maria to show to receptive strangers. The shameful history of Maria’s people was set out in black and white.

  Unlike the American West, where the natives congregated in distinct tribes, the Indians of New England and Long Island shared a similar language and culture. Europeans assigned them names based on the Indian names of where they lived—Shinnecock, Pachogue—but the major differences among the native groups were mainly of dialect and accent. The most important of these tribes, the Montauks (as the white men called them), lived on the easternmost part of the southern fork of Long Island. The medium of exchange among the Indians of New England, and then among the Indians and the white settlers in the early Colonial era, was the wampum, and there was more wampum on eastern Long Island than anywhere else in the colonies. The Montauks were the keepers of the wampum as economic high priests for the natives in the northeast, and as such they enjoyed a noble place among the natives—and a targeted position among the whites. In a remarkably short period of time, the whites managed to steal Montauk land and take possession of the Native American currency.

  By the early 1880s, they had succeeded. In 1871, a New York state court referee ruled that the Montauks had no property rights that white men were obligated to respect. In affirming the referee’s decision a few months later, the New York Supreme Court held that the Montauks were “trespassing” on their own land. To mute any public outcry, the Montauks were then placed on a reservation—predictably located on the least inviting parts of eastern Long Island. But soon that, too, became valuable property for railroad owners, fishermen, and white land developers. In October 1879, a man named Arthur Benson petitioned the New York state court to sell him the reservation land at “auction,” and for $150,000, Benson was awarded the entire parcel.

  Maria took up the narrative from there. “After they stole our land and placed us on the reservation, my nephew David came forward to lead us. He had worked for the Union Army and observed the white man’s ways, and he understood them as a child understands a pet. He knew the whites would ignore him if the tribe referred to him merely as their leader, so he asked them to make him king. He did not know exactly what it meant to be king, only that the whites treated you differently if that was what you were called. The newspapers wrote about him as king, and with this title he went to Albany to ask the government of New York to give us back our land. David had served with some of the men there in the cavalry, and they offered to help him. But Mr. Hilton would not allow it.”

  Nellie perked up. “Mr. Hilton? Henry Hilton?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was he involved?”

  “Mr. Benson had sold much of the land to Mr. Hilton—”

  “And Mr. Corbin?”

  “Yes. To Hilton and Corbin.”

  “Go on. Please.” Nellie could sense the pieces about to fall into place.

  “The men in Albany became afraid to help David, even though he had saved their lives, and would no longer speak with him. Some said it was because our tribe now had African blood because they hated the Africans, and this allowed them to say our blood was no longer pure, though of course that was a lie. David found a lawyer, another soldier he had fought beside, to tell a judge about all the stealing, but then something terrible happened.”

  The older woman, stolid in recounting all the injustice, paused to gather herself. “My sister, David’s mother, was murdered in her home. David found her.”

  The old woman handed Nellie a tattered clip from The Brooklyn Eagle. “The back of her head was crushed in.”

  Nellie read the clip.

  Aurelia Pharaoh, mother of King David Pharaoh of the Montauk tribe of Indians, was found dead on the floo
r of her cabin. Foul play was suspected, but the jury settled that by a verdict she had died from “a visitation of Almighty God.”

  “They thought that would be the end of it. David would be so upset and frightened that he would stop his efforts to regain our land. But David was not afraid. He was devoted to his people. He suffered from the loss of my sister, yes, but that only made him stronger. And so they murdered him, too.”

  The old woman handed Nellie another clip from The Brooklyn Eagle, frayed and browning around the edges like the first one.

  David Pharaoh, the King of the Montauk Indians, is missing, under suspicious circumstances. His hat was found on the deck of a schooner, and as he was known to have a large amount of money, foul play is suspected. He is the last of the Montauk tribe.

  “And so they killed them both, Aurelia and David. My sister and my nephew.”

  Nellie felt terrible for the old woman. There was not a doubt in Nellie’s mind that she was telling the truth.

  “But he was not the last of the Montauks,” said Nellie.

  “No.”

  “And after they killed him, you went to see Miss Lazarus.”

  “Yes. Some people from a faraway land, who had crossed the great ocean, settled near here. They told me she had found them food and shelter and a place to live. They said her heart was good. And so I went to see her at the docks in Manhattan, where those who cross the ocean walk onto the land.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she would help me. She wanted me to meet a lawyer. I said I had no money for a lawyer, but she told me not to worry, that she would pay the lawyer.”

  “Did you tell Miss Lazarus about Hilton’s involvement? And Corbin’s?”

  “Yes. She was not surprised. She said they were bad men. But she would try to stop them. She said she had beaten them before and would have ways to do it again.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Miss Lazarus crossed the ocean.”

  “And the lawyer?”

  “He watched the grass grow by the cobblestones near his office.”

  Nellie had to smile.

  “So he did nothing unless Miss Lazarus was around?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And when she returned?”

  “She was weak from the cancer, but she became very angry with him. And he did bring some papers to the court, asking for the return of our land. She still held hope and would write to me. But soon she lost all strength. And then she died.”

  “And the lawyer?”

  “He said he could no longer work on the case.”

  “But she had paid him.”

  “Yes. But he wanted nothing more to do with me.”

  Something wasn’t making sense to Nellie. “Miss Pharaoh, do you know why Hilton and Corbin were so determined to keep your tribe away from Montauk?”

  To the old woman it was obvious. “They want our land.”

  “Yes, but why? Corbin already has the sole railroad to Sag Harbor. No one else could build one farther east without connecting to his. If they tried to build their own, it would be prohibitively expensive.”

  “There are many things I do not understand about white men. Their greed, their violence. They stole our land and moved us to a reservation with great praise for their own kindness, then took that land for themselves as well. When we protested, they killed my sister and my nephew. What can there be to understand about people such as this?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sag Harbor

  “What can there be to understand about people such as this?”

  On the train from Sag Harbor to Hunters Point, and then on the ferry ride back to Manhattan, Nellie tried to answer that question, and some others. Whites could kill Indians and take their land because they knew there would be no consequences, in the same way whites could kill blacks and take their land without consequence. But for Hilton and Corbin to kill Emma Lazarus, there was no simple guarantee of impunity.

  Emma had powerful friends—Julia Ward Howe loved her like a daughter, as did Joseph Pulitzer and possibly even Jay Gould. Arranging for her murder would be a very risky matter. It would have to be extremely well-planned and worth the extremely serious risk. What were they planning that the two of them were willing to jeopardize their fortunes and their freedom?

  Whatever it was, Nellie realized, had to do with the Montauks and their territory on Long Island. It was only when Emma became involved with Maria Pharaoh that her life had been placed in real danger. What could possibly be at stake that Hilton and Corbin would act so brazenly? Once again she mentally reviewed: they already had deeds to the land and, more importantly, controlled the only access to the land with Corbin’s monopoly of the Long Island Railroad. Nellie finally gave up thinking about it because she was getting nowhere.

  Perhaps she was way off base. Perhaps Emma was not murdered after all, or there would be no way of proving it. Perhaps … she caught herself. First things first. She would have to get an answer from Ingram.

  It had been a long day. She had left for Newport at dawn, had lunch with Julia Ward Howe, took the afternoon ferry to Sag Harbor, arrived in the early evening for her meeting with Maria Pharaoh, then took the train back to Hunters Point and the ferry to Manhattan, arriving just after midnight. She should have gone straight home, but she needed to take this story out of the realm of conjecture as quickly as possible. She took a carriage from the Thirty-Fourth Street ferry terminal to Ingram’s house.

  A light was on in the basement: Ingram, to her relief and trepidation, was working. She knocked hesitantly on the door and heard him hurry up the stairs and to the front door. He opened it quickly and stared at her without a word. He looked even more tired and drawn than usual.

  “Forgive the intrusion.”

  “No intrusion at all.”

  He looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days. She wanted to hold him and hug him and comfort him and make love to him, but she couldn’t. He would be leaving in a matter of days.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes. I was working. Please. Come in.” He opened the door wide. She walked in. “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

  “Please. Thank you.”

  She followed him into his kitchen. A fire burned in the fireplace. He filled the tea kettle and put it on a shelf over the fire.

  “Are you hungry? Would you like some food?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She hadn’t eaten since lunch and was famished, but she wanted to stay no longer than needed. In her fatigued state, there was no telling what she might do or say. He stoked the fire to increase the heat.

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m here at this hour?” she asked.

  “No. I am happy you’re here whatever the reason.”

  She watched him prepare the tea. He avoided looking at her. “I conducted the analysis for the pillowcase,” he said.

  She had almost forgotten about the pillowcase Sarah had given her. In his presence, she had almost forgotten about the case entirely and, watching him tend to the fire, could think only of his gentle touch on her inner thighs. She could feel resistance abandoning her.

  “The concentrations of arsenic were high,” Ingram began, “approaching a fatal level but well below a suicidal level. She would be terribly sick and, without proper treatment, would expire. A person with this amount of arsenic in her system was not intent on killing herself, nor could she have ingested it by accident. The only viable conclusion is that it was ingested without her knowledge.”

  “So it was murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have another item for you, this time from someone who will publicly attest to it.” She took out Julia’s letters from her satchel. But he shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Ingram, I need these analyzed for arsenic.”

  �
��I know you do, but I must decline,” he said, staring at the fireplace.

  “Because I will no longer share your bed?” She was shaking with anger. “I must prostitute myself in order for you to help me? You who know the extent of the corruption here? Look at me, for God’s sake! Answer me!”

  He looked up at her slowly, with mournful eyes.

  “The pillowcase confirmed my worst suspicions, that you have stumbled upon a murder—committed by powerful and ruthless men. Should the people who killed Miss Lazarus think for even a moment that you pose any threat to them, they will not hesitate to harm you. I will not be a party to that. I would never forgive myself.”

  He looked at her with a kind of love and tenderness she had never known in all her life. She could feel the pain in his heart as if it were her own. In that moment, she realized she loved him the same way. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “I cannot stop my work on this story. If you will not help me, I will find someone else. It may be difficult, and it may take time, but I will find a chemist somewhere.”

  “I assumed you would say that. And so I have a proposition for you. I will do all the chemical analysis you need and even testify if need be, if—and only if—you and your mother will move here in the morning. I will have the maid make up the rooms.”

  “I don’t think that is necessary—”

  “It is absolutely necessary. I will worry myself to death if you refuse me.” He was insistent.

  “What about Mrs. Fairley?”

  “The rooms are in a separate part of the house. You will never see Mrs. Fairley unless you seek her out.”

  “My mother may be aghast.”