Cleopatra’s Dagger, page 26
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
He stood at the top of Bayard Street, listening to the drunken singing coming from the cheerless saloon on the corner.
They had a dreadful fight, upon Saturday night
The papers gave the news accordin’;
Guns, pistols, clubs and sticks, hot water and old bricks,
Which drove them on the other side of Jordan.
He knew the song well. It commemorated the last great fight between rival street gangs the Bowery Boys and the Dead Rabbits on July 4, 1857. The riot had lasted two days, with skirmishes continuing for a week after, and marked the beginning of the decline of the city’s street gangs.
Then pull off the old coat and roll up the sleeve,
Bayard is a hard street to travel;
Pull off the coat and roll up the sleeve,
The Bloody Sixth is a hard ward to travel, I believe.
Like every other New Yorker, he knew the story well. The city was only slightly less turbulent than it had been in those tempestuous days—gangs might not roam the streets in quite the same way, but crime had not abated, and the poor still lived in desperate squalor.
A mangy yellow dog crept past him, head low, resignation in its weary gait. He once had felt like that dog, but no longer. Surveying the street as darkness fell, he inhaled deeply. He stood on the precipice of greatness; a vast and mighty city lay at his feet. His deeds were on everyone’s mind, on their lips. Even now, he could feel it; tongues wagged in drawing rooms and hallways, in doorways and storefronts. He breathed in the night air, sweet with the promise of fall, but just beneath it lurked the fetid stench of corruption and despair.
He strolled up Mulberry, and as he approached the Bend, a rat scurried across the street, emitting a squeak before disappearing into a gutter. Five Points, it was said, was where souls went to die. Hope itself seemed to fear its crooked streets. He knew justice to be an entirely human concept, in spite of what the fortunate few would have you believe.
But now he held the reins of justice in his own hands. No captain of industry, no steel or railroad magnate, wielded more power than he did at this moment. He would be known—his influence would soon be felt far and wide. He was Osiris, Lord of the Underworld, Judge of the Dead.
And he was just getting started.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
After speaking with “Seadog,” Elizabeth longed to join Freddy at the Tombs. But she knew those imposing granite gates, and reluctantly heeded his warning. Wending her way northward as the early-evening light enveloped the city in its hazy glow, she arrived at the Herald to find James Gordon Bennett Jr. nowhere in sight. This was hardly surprising, as it was Sunday night, and there was but a skeleton crew manning the editorial offices. The press in the basement was rumbling along, the Monday-morning edition already in progress, but all inquiries as to exactly where Bennett was were met with blank stares. Finally an editorial assistant told her that the publisher stayed at the Windsor Hotel when he was in New York. Elizabeth promptly sent a telegram, with the Stuyvesant as the return address for replies.
FERGUSON BEATEN BY BYRNES, TAKEN TO TOMBS—CONTACT ME FOR DETAILS—E. VAN DEN BROEK
She did not know when Bennett would receive the message, but at least any reply would come straight to her. Impulsively, she decided to pay a visit to Justus Schwab’s saloon. With any luck, she hoped to find Carlotta and Jonah there.
The saloon occupied the first floor of a five-story, redbrick tenement at 50 East First Street. Elizabeth had walked by the building once or twice, but always thought it a quiet, unremarkable block. First Street was hardly a thoroughfare—it was short, even for downtown, occupying only the three blocks stretching from Avenue A to the Bowery. Just to the south was Houston Street, a thoroughfare heavily traversed by trams, carriages, and cabs, where the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves resounded night and day.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the building, Elizabeth could hear voices—laughing, talking, shouting. The tinny tones of an upright piano floated out from deep within the saloon. The sign over the door proclaimed it to be Justus Schwab’s Lager Beer Halle; letters stenciled on the front picture window advertised the sale of “Wine, Beer & Liquors.” She pushed hesitantly on the door, which was whisked open from within by a smiling young man with a jet-black beard and eyebrows to match. He wore square spectacles and a cloth cap; his short jacket was cut close over somewhat baggy trousers.
“Come in!” he bellowed, clamping a hand upon her shoulder and pulling her into a crowded, smoke-filled room. “Welcome, welcome—what are you drinking, Comrade?”
“Well, I—”
“A beer, then! Only the finest lager for young lady such as yourself!” His accent was Russian, and his manner so energetic that his body seemed to be one large exclamation mark.
“I don’t—”
“Is no problem—be right back!”
He disappeared through the crowd, leaving Elizabeth alone in the saloon’s long, narrow front room. It could not have been more than ten feet across, with a low tin ceiling and smoke-stained walls illuminated by gas sconces. A bar at the far end of the room was manned by a scruffy-looking young man in a short jacket and a striped scarf. A dusty mirror behind him reflected the scene back on itself, making the cramped space appear larger.
A doorway to one side led to a back room, from which she could make out scattered strains of the piano, though the bar was too noisy to identify the tune. The few tables scattered along the sides of the room were occupied by all manner of men and women, in all manner of clothing. No one appeared to have dressed with an eye to what might be deemed “fashionable.” Some seemed to have flung open their closets and thrown on whatever suited them, without regard to the opinion of “respectable” society. Some looked distinctly bohemian; others wore what she recognized as radical socialist garb. Still others sported a scholarly look, all in black; some of the women affected a severe hairstyle and a mannish style of dress.
Fully a third of those present were women; she also noticed several Negroes, as well as one man whose face had an Oriental cast. Old and young alike were engaged in deep conversation, peppered with bursts of laughter and long drinks from tall metal beer steins. A few people looked up when Elizabeth entered; some seemed mildly interested in her presence but soon returned to the business of talking and drinking with their companions. She felt neither overlooked nor scrutinized—her presence seemed accepted with a matter-of-fact equanimity. She had never felt so relaxed in a room full of strangers.
Straining her neck to see over the crowd of people standing, Elizabeth searched for Carlotta and her brother as the young black-haired fellow returned with two steins of beer.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her one.
“Very kind of you,” she said.
“Let us drink to Karl Marx!” he said, raising his glass. Seeing her hesitation, he clapped her on the back so heartily that she wondered if it was some form of a secret radical handshake. “Do not fear—you are safe here. Drink, Comrade!”
Suddenly very thirsty, she gulped down a large quantity of the ice-cold lager. The bubbles tickled her throat, sharp and refreshing.
After drinking deeply himself, her companion launched into a song; several others quickly joined in.
Stand up, damned of the earth!
Stand up, prisoners of starvation
Reason thunders in its volcano
This is the eruption of the end!
The song went on for several more verses, ending in applause and cheers from the assembled company.
“You are new to this place, then?” Elizabeth’s companion asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“I see you studying crowd. You don’t seem to know anyone here.”
“She does, indeed!” came a voice from behind Elizabeth, and she turned to see Carlotta and Jonah. “I am so glad you came!” Carlotta said, flinging her arms around Elizabeth, nearly knocking her off her feet.
“As I am,” Jonah said, shaking her hand warmly as she regained her balance.
The black-haired man smiled. “You know these two scallywags, then?”
“I shouldn’t be the pot calling the kettle black if I were you,” Jonah replied. “You’re quite the miscreant yourself.”
“Oh, leave off, you two,” Carlotta said, turning to Elizabeth. “I see you have met Grigory.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “We have not yet been formally introduced.”
Jonah hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Ah! Where are my manners?”
“At bottom of that beer stein, I should think,” Grigory remarked. Jonah responded with a soft punch to his shoulder.
Carlotta stepped in. “Grigory, allow me to present my friend Miss Elizabeth van den Broek.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, kissing her hand.
“And may I introduce Mr. Grigory Kalyenkov, scoundrel, revolutionary, and man of letters,” said Jonah.
“Indeed,” Elizabeth replied, “I have known many scoundrels, but few men of letters, and even fewer true revolutionaries. I have yet to see all three in one individual.”
Grigory grinned. “You forget to say I am also socialist.”
Jonah snorted. “Psh! Everyone in this room is a socialist.”
“I don’t believe I am one,” Elizabeth remarked.
Carlotta pointed to her beer stein. “A few more of these and you will be.” She hugged Elizabeth impulsively again. “Truly, I did not think you would come.”
“I am glad you join our struggle,” Grigory said, throwing an arm around her other shoulder. “Dobro pozhalovat’—welcome!”
“What exactly is the nature of the struggle?” Elizabeth asked.
“The struggle for people’s minds,” Jonah answered. “We aim to overthrow the repressions and injustices of modern society—to close the gap between rich and poor.”
“Elizabeth has been a guest of Mrs. Astor,” said Carlotta.
“I was there as a journalist,” Elizabeth corrected her.
“But apparently you made quite an impression. Mrs. Astor liked her,” Carlotta told the men.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking she was interested in you,” Jonah told Elizabeth. “Once she realized you wrote for the Herald, her job was to be certain you gave a glowing account of her soiree.”
“Eto glupo!” said Grigory, throwing his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Mrs. Astor simply has good taste—I like her, too!”
Jonah lit a cigarette. “Besides, what does it matter if one is accepted in high society? Is it an indication of true worthiness?” He waved the cigarette over his head, dispelling the smoke into the air. “Of course not! It simply means you have a pedigree.”
Grigory nodded. “The privileged always strive to maintain status quo.”
Jonah waved his cigarette in Elizabeth’s direction. “Is that not what your ancestors left the Old Country to escape? And look at them, replicating their egotistical follies.”
Elizabeth was about to reply when a tall, scraggly fellow who was the human embodiment of a scarecrow entered from the back room. Waving his hands about, he soon got the attention of the assembled company.
“Justus is about to sing ‘La Marseillaise’!” he proclaimed portentously, as if he were a royal page announcing the imminent arrival of the queen.
A current of excitement rippled through the crowd, and everyone headed toward the back room.
“Come!” Grigory told Elizabeth. “You must not miss this!”
The four of them filed into the tiny back room with the rest of the crowd.
The object of everyone’s attention stood next to a battered upright piano in the corner, next to a small bar with an assortment of liquor bottles on built-in shelves behind it. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a bristling mustache and a mane of bushy red hair, here was the famed Justus Schwab in the flesh. He did not disappoint, living up to all she had heard about him. A giant of a man, he really did resemble a Viking, as all the newspapers had reported after his heroics at the Tompkins Square riots.
“Come in, Comrades!” he said in a booming baritone revealing his Germanic origin. “Es ist Platz für alle—zer is room fer everyvone!”
The crowd surged forward eagerly, cramming even more closely into the packed room. Sliding her foot from beneath the boot of the bearded man in front of her, Elizabeth tried to move her arms, which were pinned to her sides. The lager had gone to her head—she felt giddy and light, as if the beer’s bubbles were expanding in her brain. She could smell the perfume of the woman behind her, a heavy floral aroma that might have been pleasant in less close quarters. Crushed in between a socialist Russian revolutionary and a homegrown anarchist, Elizabeth felt an unexpected sense of belonging. She had never felt it in her parents’ elegant Fifth Avenue town house, nor even among her friends at Vassar. These people had a buoyancy combined with a seriousness of purpose that was altogether new to her.
When the crowd had quieted down, Justus Schwab took his seat at the piano. Banging enthusiastically on the keys, he sang the words to the French national anthem in a strong, sweet baritone.
Allons enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
At first the crowd listened reverently, but they soon joined in, their voices ringing off the narrow walls of the little room.
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L’étendard sanglant est levé!
L’étendard sanglant est levé!
Caught up in the spirit of the moment, Elizabeth joined in, lustily bellowing out the lyrics, a little surprised she remembered the words from French class.
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Tears spurted from her eyes as she stood amid this motley collection of people singing the French national anthem, led by a German immigrant. She felt a patriotic pride, not so much for America as for the great and beleaguered city she called home. Somehow, in this dank, densely packed back room, Elizabeth thought maybe she had found her people.
And then, without warning, the front room exploded.
CHAPTER FIFTY
There was a great banging in the front room, followed by shouts and the stamping of thick-soled boots.
“Police! This is a raid!”
Everyone froze for a moment. What followed was utter chaos. There was a mass exodus toward the back exit, as dozens of people tried to squeeze through the small door facing an alley leading to Houston Street. People panicked, pushing and shoving as they fled the barrage of policemen invading the saloon.
Elizabeth staggered backward as the cops barged their way into the room, billy clubs drawn. No one offered any resistance as they grabbed people one by one, handcuffing them and dragging them to the front room. Elizabeth was imagining the ignominy of her father bailing her out of jail when a hand grasped her firmly by the wrist. Turning, she saw Carlotta, her face flushed.
“Come along—this way!” she cried, pulling Elizabeth behind the bar just as Jonah and Grigory pulled open a trapdoor on the floor. Elizabeth glanced at the marauding police force, but they were too busy arresting people to pay attention to the four people behind the bar. “Quickly—hurry!” Carlotta said, practically shoving Elizabeth down the narrow steps leading to an underground room.
Scampering down the stairs, Elizabeth found herself in the building’s basement. It seemed to be used principally for storage. Crates of beer were stacked next to cases of wine on the stone floor, which also held bits of discarded lumber and a broken chair, among other odds and ends. A small grime-caked window near the ceiling was the only source of light; cobwebs danced in the thin breeze seeping through its frame.
She had barely reached the bottom when Carlotta and the two men followed. Grigory brought up the rear, closing the trapdoor behind him.
“What about the others?” Elizabeth asked as he wiped dirt from his hands.
“They were all in big hurry to escape out back door.”
“How did you know about this place?” Carlotta asked.
“I work for Justus once as bartender,” he said, lighting a gas wall sconce. The flame flared abruptly to life, flickering as he turned it down. “We come down here to fetch supplies.”
“What do we do now?” Carlotta asked, listening to the heavy thump of footsteps on the floor above them.
Grigory removed his cap and brushed the dust from it. “We wait.”
“What if they find us down here?”
He shrugged. “Then we will be arrested.”
“I shouldn’t think it will be long,” Jonah said. “Once they shove everyone into the paddy wagon, they’ll be off.”
“Might as well make ourselves comfortable,” said Grigory, sitting on one of the liquor crates.
Elizabeth dusted off the top of a beer barrel and leaned against it. “Do you not find it ironic that the term ‘paddy wagon’ was originally an insult to the Irish people it used to transport, yet now—”
“They are the ones rounding people up,” Carlotta finished for her.
“Yes,” she said, a bit irritated at being interrupted.
“So goes the circle of history,” Jonah remarked. “The oppressed soon become the oppressors.”
“This is true,” said Grigory, “but as the great Turgenev said, ‘Nature creates while destroying.’”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asked Carlotta.
“It means we might as well enjoy ourselves,” Grigory said, plucking a bottle of wine from one of the cases.
“You do not intend to steal that, I hope?” said Elizabeth.
“Do not worry—I pay Justus next time I am here.”
“I’ll ensure that he keeps his promise,” Carlotta added.
Elizabeth shivered—the cellar was damp and cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. Inhaling the stale, musty air, she thought about the deep, hot bath she would take when she finally got home. Standing, she wrapped her arms around her body and walked around the room.
“Are you cold?” said Carlotta.
“Would you like my jacket?” Grigory asked.
