A March to Remember

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  7. Patent Office

  8. Zoological Park

  9. Naval Observatory

  10. Agricultural Department

  “Anything to add, Mr. Smith?” his wife said.

  “No, no,” the senator grumbled. He pulled his spectacles from his face, breathed on them until they fogged over, and wiped them with his handkerchief. “You’ve been quite thorough.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I’ll certainly try to visit as many as my time allows. Sir?” I said, reminding Sir Arthur of my request.

  “Yes, if you’ll excuse us,” Sir Arthur said.

  I followed him out of the room and down the hall in silence. Staring at his rigid back, I suddenly wondered how I was going to tell him I planned to marry Walter, and leave his service. What if he doesn’t approve? What if he doesn’t give us his blessing? What if he dismisses me on the spot?

  “Like hell you will!” Sir Arthur had his hand on the study room door when a voice from within shouted. “Damn you, Harper! Why can’t you leave it alone?”

  “Hey, I’m a reporter. And you, my friend, are news. So answer the question, Chester. Did you or did you not—?”

  “You disgust me, Harper.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Chester.”

  “Why the hell did Father let you in his house in the first place?”

  “Because he’s a friend of mine,” Sir Arthur said, swinging the door open.

  “Then you answer his question,” Chester Smith sneered as he pushed past Sir Arthur. “Get out of my way,” he barked as he passed me.

  I watched as he stomped down the hall and then flung himself, two steps at a time, up the stairs. I turned back toward Sir Arthur and Simeon Harper when I heard Mr. Harper say, “But, Arthur, you don’t expect me to let an opportunity like this go by, do you?”

  “I’m asking you not to offend my host,” Sir Arthur replied. Sir Arthur turned toward me when Mr. Harper indicated me with a nod of his head.

  “Need something, Miss Davish?” Mr. Harper said, pulling a stick of chewing gum from his vest pocket.

  “We’ll talk later, Hattie. And I’d like those new pages first thing Monday morning,” Sir Arthur said, closing the door.

  “Of course,” I said to the closed door. But I didn’t leave. What had Chester Smith and Simeon Harper been arguing about? Why did Mr. Harper think Chester Smith was newsworthy? It wasn’t simply because he was a senator’s son. I leaned a bit toward the door to listen. Sir Arthur said something, but it wasn’t clear. I pressed my ear to the door.

  “He’s been in self-imposed exile for months. This is the first chance I’ve had to question him,” Simeon Harper was saying.

  “It doesn’t bloody matter,” Sir Arthur said. “I’m his father’s guest and you are mine. Don’t embarrass me.”

  “Of course, it was never my intention to bring any of this upon you. Truly, I came tonight with a pure heart and good intentions. Nothing like this will happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Aren’t you even a bit curious, Arthur?”

  “No. What Chester Smith does or did is none of my concern.”

  “Well, I’m going to tell you anyway. Maybe then you won’t judge me so harshly.”

  I was curious what Chester Smith had done even if Sir Arthur wasn’t and waited in anticipation. But it wasn’t to be. Footsteps sounded in the hall as Claude Morris approached. I immediately backed away and heard no more.

  “Can I be of some service, Miss Davish?” Mr. Morris called to me as I scurried away in the opposite direction.

  Not unless you can tell me why Chester Smith is of such interest to a newspaper man, I thought, knowing the senator’s secretary would never do any such thing.

  * * *

  Grrr . . . woof, woof, woof, woof! Grrr . . .

  I awoke with a jerk. I was sitting at my desk and had fallen asleep at my typewriter. What time is it? I wondered. I pushed my chair back and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was one o’clock in the morning.

  Despite the excitement of the previous day, Sunday morning had found me refreshed, relaxed, and almost giddy whenever thoughts of my engagement drifted into my mind. When Sir Arthur, despite being Anglican, had readily accepted the Smiths’ invitation to join them for services at St. John’s, a small, classical Episcopal church on Lafayette Square well known because every president since James Madison had worshiped there on some occasion, I had happily strolled the two blocks to St. Matthew’s. Walter had been waiting. As always, the light streaming through the stained glass windows, the incense, and the rhythmic cadence of the Mass soothed me, enveloping me with peace. And to have Walter with me, celebrating Mass with me for the first time, I couldn’t imagine feeling happier. And then we spent a most pleasant afternoon and evening together, strolling the Mall hand in hand, stealing kisses behind elm trees and basking in each other’s company. When I’d finally bidden him good night, after several lingering embraces, my heart had been light and I’d felt more at peace than I had for a long time. What did I care if I’d have to spend the night on my unfinished typing?

  Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!

  But why is Spencer barking? I thought.

  I’d never been one for animals, never having had one as a pet. I had grown to tolerate Mrs. Mayhew’s cat, Bonaparte, while working for that lady in Newport last summer. The cat had a habit of stopping by my rooms whenever it was mealtime, and I never disappointed him, never having finished all the food that was prepared for me. I’d been more than happy to share. But Spencer was different. I liked Spencer. I had grown accustomed to the puppy, as Mrs. Smith was never without him, except at the dining table and social events. Even then I was assured he was getting spoiled eating gizzards and ham bones in the kitchen. But then the feeling grew to true fondness. Despite seldom being able to interact with him, as the dog was almost always on Mrs. Smith’s lap, we nevertheless regarded one another with kindness and genuine friendship. When given the chance, Spencer always took the opportunity to prick up his ears and pant in excitement whenever I entered the room. And likewise, I always had a kind word, and if the opportunity arose, a good scratch behind his ears. Mrs. Smith commented every time how Spencer was never overtly friendly with strangers but had taken an instant liking to me.

  But I’d never once heard Spencer bark like this. Still a puppy, his most valiant efforts resulted in more of a high-pitched whine than a deep growl or bark. But this, if I hadn’t known better, sounded like it came from a much larger, more ferocious dog.

  Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!

  “Shut that dog up,” someone shouted.

  Spencer, hampered by something or someone, yelped in distress and then gave a stifled growl before falling silent. Suddenly the front door slammed, and the puppy began another round of barking. Mrs. Smith had mentioned that the breed was protective. Could she be in danger?

  I pushed back from the desk, ignoring the ache in my neck, and went to the window, my second-floor room having a good view of the street. I was in time to see a man in a black fedora, his back to me, twirling a black umbrella, stroll away from the house and through the park toward Pennsylvania Avenue. I grabbed my shawl from the back of the chair and poked my head out of my door. Claude Morris stood in his dressing gown near the end of the hall. I pulled my shawl closed about my neck.

  Before I could ask, Mr. Morris said, “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Miss Davish. All’s well. Just the silly dog barking.”

  “Mrs. Smith? Is she all right?”

  “Of course.” I bristled at his tone. He didn’t say “silly woman,” but it was implied. “You can go back to bed now, Miss Davish.”

  “I’m still working. But I will say good night to you, Mr. Morris.”

  “Yes, well, then, good night.”

  It took all I had not to slam my door. The nerve of that man to speak to me in that tone. Not even Sir Arthur spoke to me with such condescension. Grateful to have work to distill my
anger (having falling asleep, I still hadn’t finished typing the pages Sir Arthur expected in the morning), I sat back down in front of my typewriter. Before beginning again, I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys, not dwelling on the audacity of Claude Morris, but wondering in earnest where on earth Chester Smith was going at this time of the night.

  CHAPTER 7

  After the pattering of rain late last night, a fresh, warm breeze and the scent of cut grass greeted me when I left the Smith home to hike. Sir Arthur’s pages were neatly stacked on the desk Senator Smith had graciously relegated for Sir Arthur’s use, waiting for him to arise. Despite having finished the typing in the early-morning hours, I woke before dawn rested. I’d dreamed of Walter inching to the edge of the Bartholdi Fountain, trying not to fall and get his knees dirty before he proposed. The image brought an irrepressible smile to my face. I was happy and relished the thought of a hike in the fresh air.

  Wearing my storm rubbers, I strolled down Seventeenth Street with the intention of hiking through the Potomac Flats, an often muddy, marshy strip in and around the tidal reservoir, created by the dredging of the river west of the Washington Monument grounds. I’d been there several times, successfully finding new species of plants for my botanical collection including wormseed and smartweed.

  As I’d done before, I stopped at the expansive Fish Commission’s carp ponds on the corner of B Street and Seventeenth, in the shadow of the Washington Monument. I enjoyed lingering at the edge of the largest, studying the surface for a glimpse of one of the gigantic fish that populated the ponds. A light, cool breeze rippled across the water, obscuring my view. I shivered and wrapped my arms around me. I stood gazing across the pond, waiting for a fish to break the surface.

  Splash! The early-morning silence was broken as a huge specimen of carp leaped into the air and crashed back below the water, sending circular waves where it had disappeared. I clapped my approval, thrilled to have been a witness, but stopped mid-clap when the sound of a fast-approaching carriage caught my attention. The two-passenger trap careened along B Street, the horse jerking his head about in protest at the speed. The driver, as his neck scarf flew in the wind, blocking his vision as well as my view of his face, snapped the reins at the poor animal again and again. The passenger, a hatless young woman in a crimson evening gown covered with flounces of alternating yellow and lavender lace that flapped with every step of the protesting horse, held a large wine bottle in one hand. As she tipped her head back to drink straight from the bottle, a sleeve fell, revealing her bare shoulder. She propped her foot on the dash, allowing her bare leg, all the way to her knee, to be plainly seen. I was mortified and yet couldn’t look away.

  Could there be more than one of those garish dresses? I wondered. I doubted it.

  When finished with her bottle, she sent it shattering to the pavement, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and cackled maniacally, urging the driver to drive faster and faster. Walter was a notoriously reckless driver, but I’d never seen anyone drive like this.

  I was far enough away that I was in no danger, but I couldn’t say the same for the people in the trap. And as they attempted to turn onto Seventeenth Street, my prediction horribly became reality. They turned too sharply, missing the pavement of the street and hitting the curb instead. The trap tipped and, for a breathless moment or two, it was propelled along solely on two wheels. As the driver lost control of the horse, the trap jumped the curb, sped across the grass, and crashed against the cobblestones embanking the pond. And then the horse reared.

  “Aaahhhh!!!!”

  The woman screamed again when the horse bolted, flinging both man and woman through the air. Her scream was cut off when she plunged into the pond, quickly disappearing beneath the surface. I watched in horror as the runaway horse, dragging the trap behind it, galloped away down Seventeenth Street. I rushed over to the point where the driver and woman had gone in, and I held my breath waiting for them to resurface. The man, his back to me, immediately rocketed upward and gasped for breath before plunging beneath the water again. All was silent as the man’s fedora floated over the ripples his splash had created.

  What’s happening? I wondered. Why don’t they surface?

  I had once been forcibly thrown into deep water and had struggled with all my strength to surface. But there were no new signs of a struggle, no more signs of the man or the woman trying to keep their heads above the water, to mar the calm.

  Finally, a loud inhalation drew my attention along the shore ahead of me. The man, still facing away from me, was, thank goodness, crawling out of the pond about fifteen yards away. He must have swum all the way underwater. I cringed at the thought of having to navigate through the schools of giant carp.

  “Sir!” I yelled. “Are you all right?”

  Without turning to look back at me, he stood, staggered a bit, and then ran stumbling as fast as he could toward the Washington Monument.

  “Don’t leave!” I shouted at his retreating figure. “Your companion needs your help. Sir!” He never looked back and soon disappeared into the expansive Mall. I focused again on the water. The woman still had not surfaced.

  She’s going to die!

  I glanced about and saw no one else. Before I could question what I was doing, I plunged into the water. It was shallow at the edge, and within a few forced steps, my skirt beneath the waist-high cold water clung to my legs, weighing me down.

  What am I doing? I wondered as I slowly pushed forward through the water, now up to my chest. I can’t swim. How am I going to help the drowning woman if I can’t even swim? Holding out my arms for balance, I took another step.

  Still several yards from where the woman had crashed into the water, something solid bumped into my waist and I froze. The water churned and shadows dashed about as hundreds of carp encircled me. Several rose to the surface, their gaping mouths inches from my sides.

  “Help!” I screamed. The rush of swishing tails made waves as the startled fish darted around me. “Help! Help!” I closed my eyes and screamed again and again.

  My eyes flew open at the rumble of carriage wheels. A rickety wagon with a banner on the side reading WORKING MEN WANT WORK NOT CHARITY was approaching the pond.

  “Help!” I yelled again as they passed.

  The driver turned his team toward me. As I waded back to dry land as fast as I could, two young, rough-looking men alighted. One was tall with unkempt, long, flaxen hair, a shaggy mustache, and clothes that needed more than a wash and a mending. He wasn’t wearing a hat, yet his green eyes were bright and attentive. The other man, significantly shorter, wore a slightly misshapen brown derby, had unevenly cut curly brown hair, was in desperate need of a shave, and had the most peculiar nose that twisted to the side with a gnarled bump in the middle. Not the type of men I would’ve chosen to meet in this distressing time or at this early hour, but someone needed to help that woman.

  “Oh my God. What happened? Are you all right, ma’am?” the taller of the two men said. “Your clothes are soaked.” Suddenly self-conscious and shivering, I gratefully took the faded coat the shorter of the two men offered me and draped it over my shoulders. Luckily it was cleaner than it appeared and smelled only of dust.

  “I’m fine. But there’s been a terrible accident. A runaway horse crashed its trap into the pond embankment, plunging the passengers into the water. A woman is still down there. She never resurfaced.”

  “She must’ve hit her head. Go get the police!” the man yelled to the driver of the wagon.

  As the wagon raced off to find the nearest police station, its banner flapping from the sheer speed of the horses, the tall man stripped off his stained, crinkled coat, throwing it heedlessly to the ground. He plucked off his boots, revealing several holes in his stockings, and waded into the water. He dove in and he too disappeared beneath the surface.

  “Is he okay?” I asked, when it seemed an interminable time since the diver had resurfaced. His companion nodded.

  �
�Don’t worry, I’ve seen Billy swim three miles nonstop down the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal.”

  The man, Billy, resurfaced with a crash, splashing water about, gasping for breath. Before we on the shore could shout our questions, he plunged back into the deep. Again we waited, all hope for the woman fading fast. Finally, the man burst through the surface again. And yet again he was alone. One final time he bobbed about, catching his breath in one loud inhalation, and dove under again. This time when he resurfaced he shook his head.

  “I can’t find her,” he yelled before swimming back to the shore.

  “Want me to have a look?” his companion said.

  “No, Jasper. It’s no use.”

  “Strange for a woman to be out alone at this hour of the morning,” Jasper said, and then regarding me, realized what he had said. “Oh, pardon me. I hope you didn’t take offense.”

  “No offense taken. But in her case, you’re mistaken.”

  “Oh?”

  “She wasn’t alone.”

  “What?” Billy said, his eyes boring into mine.

  “She wasn’t alone. When the carriage went in, a man was driving.”

  “You didn’t say anything about a man,” Billy said, again stripping off the coat he had put back on to keep warm.

  “No, you misunderstand me. He didn’t drown. He resurfaced over there.” I pointed. “But when I called out to him, he ran away.”

  “That’s despicable!” Billy said, spitting out the words. “How could he not at least try to save her?”

  Jasper shook his head in disbelief. “What is this world coming to?”

  We all turned at the sound of a carriage rumbling past. Another lone traveler in the early-morning hours. Billy pulled out a solid gold watch with W.M. engraved upon it.

  Where did he get such an expensive watch? I wondered.

  Did he steal it? Is it all that’s left of a fortune misspent? I unconsciously took a slight step back. Luckily he had put away the watch and was busy wringing the water from his trouser leg and didn’t notice. His companion, Jasper, did, though, and frowned.