New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [250]
But Hetty didn’t care.
“Thanks for the ride,” she called, and turned to walk down Fifth. She might have a bruise or two, but she felt better. At least she was doing something.
As the carriage pulled away up Fifth, she did pause for a moment, though, to straighten her clothes. The heat and humidity were oppressive. She glanced around. On the corner opposite was a large building. And when she saw it, she even smiled.
If the reservoir represented the massive solidity of the city’s engineering, the orphanage for black children opposite her was a welcome reminder, even on this day of chaos, that the city did have a moral compass too. For it was the wealthy people of the city, people like herself, who had paid for the orphanage, and it wasn’t just for show. Two hundred and thirty-seven black children, from infants up, were housed, clothed, fed—and, yes, educated—in that building on Fifth Avenue. Two hundred and thirty-seven children given the chance of a decent life.
If Madame Restell, or her husband, or anyone else wanted to know what Lincoln was fighting for, she thought, let them come to the orphanage on Fifth, and see the children there.
She did not see the mob until it was upon her. They came from the side streets and swept down the avenue. Men and women alike, they were carrying bricks, clubs, knives, anything they had picked up along the way. As they continued to stream into the avenue, there seemed to be hundreds of them.
They did not pause to smash windows. They did not even look at her. A single object was their sole intent. They were making for the orphanage.
As they drew close, a loud voice cried out: “Kill the nigger children!” At which the whole crowd let out a mighty roar.
And Hetty, forgetting even her dear husband for a moment, watched in horror. She couldn’t just leave. She had to do something.
Frank Master stood beside his son in front of the big picture of Niagara Falls in the dining room. Then he turned and went to the window, and stared out.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said.
The truth was, he was beside himself. He had cursed himself until he was worn out, and the impotent frustration was almost more than he could bear. He just wanted to take action, fight somebody, anything.
Tom had been gone so long he’d thought something must have happened to him, too. But when he finally got back, he’d explained.
“The counting house was locked when I got there. The place was deserted. I criss-crossed every street I could think of on the way back, Pa. That’s why I took so long. But there isn’t a sign of her. Nothing.”
He’d only been back a few minutes when a great roar from the direction of the armory had caused Frank to go out into the street. The crowd had finally begun their assault. The building was catching fire. He could see figures appearing in the upper windows and on the roof of the building. It looked as if they’d be burned. Not that there was a damn thing he could do about it. The heat from the building combined with the suffocating heat of the day was awful. He hurried back to the house.
The assault on the armory had one effect: it seemed to be drawing all the mobs in the area to the scene. Gramercy Park was temporarily deserted. Cautiously, he opened one of the dining-room window shutters. Ten more minutes passed. The flames rising from the armory were sending flashes into the sky.
But now, suddenly, a boy came running up the steps to the front door, and was hammering on the door. The parlormaid appeared to ask what to do. He told her not to open.
“It may be a trap.” Some fellow with a brick or a firebrand might be lurking out there to hurl his missile in as soon as the door was open. He pulled the shutter closed and went into the hall.
“What if it’s a message from Mother?” said Tom.
“I thought of that.” Signaling Tom to stand behind him, he went to the door, picking up a walking stick with a head like a cudgel on the