A March to Remember (19 page)

“Regret what? Sorry for what?” Walter said, his voice lowered again.

“I don't know. She didn't tell me.”

“So who are you supposed to relay this message to?”

“To Mrs. Mildred Smith and—”

“The senator's wife?” I nodded. “How would a madam know the senator's wife? What would she have to regret or feel sorry about that would concern Mildred Smith?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, I can see why you didn't know what to do, why this is weighing on your mind. Any hint of this could endanger not only Mrs. Smith's reputation but the senator's career.”

“I know.” I looked at him, wondering how I was possibly going to continue, to finish what I had to say.

Maybe he doesn't need to know everything,
I thought. And then he made the decision for me.

“You said
them
. ‘Tell them I regret it.' Who else did she name, Hattie?”

“Sarah.” At first I wondered if Walter had heard me. He didn't gasp, he didn't shout, he didn't move. I'd spoken his sister's name so quietly I barely heard myself. But then he surprised me, reaching out his arms and engulfing me in his embrace.

“I love you, Hattie Davish,” he whispered in my ear. “Thank you.” When he released me, I was still bewildered, and although I relished each and every embrace, I had no idea why he'd responded so ardently.

“What do you have to thank me for? I've told you that your sister's name passed the lips of a . . .”

“And you told no one.”

“Of course not.”

“Your reputation for being trustworthy and highly discreet is well deserved.”

“You don't need to thank me, Walter. It's an essential part of my job.”

“But you weren't doing this as part of your job. You did this out of your love for me.” He was right. If Mrs. Smith's name alone had been mentioned, I would've told Sir Arthur as I planned to tell him about Chester Smith's activities. But everything changed when I heard Sarah's name. “Hence the thank-you.”

“You are more than welcome. But do we tell Sarah?”

“Yes, but first things first.” Walter smiled at me again, as he had the first time we'd met, his teeth brilliantly white. “We have a man's mind to change.”

“Yes, let's.” We stood to go and Walter offered me his arm. As we strolled past a case filled with seashells from all over the world, polished and gleaming beneath the glass, I added, “You'll never guess what I saw Chester Smith doing this afternoon.”

“What?”

“Bribing a clerk at the Treasury Building.”

Walter tilted his head back and laughed, his laughter echoing off the high ceilings. “Hattie Davish, or should I call you Nellie Bly, whatever am I going to do with you?”

“You could kiss me?” And, to my delight and surprise, he did.

C
HAPTER
24

“W
hy are you still up, Meriwether?” Mrs. Smith's voice reached me from the hall.

Thinking everyone was in bed at this late hour, I'd brought my work to the library. I couldn't sleep. Walter and I had met with Sir Arthur earlier. After telling Sir Arthur about Chester Smith's bribery, trusting he would know how best to handle the information, Walter and I had appealed to him, explaining our plans and Walter's support of any work I wished to pursue, but Sir Arthur had listened in silence and made no promises to reconsider. When he finally did speak, he'd said, “I'll need you at the trial of Coxey's men tomorrow. I'll trust you will be prepared?” He'd been smoking his cigar and scowling when we'd left dispirited and disappointed. Hence my sleeplessness.

Engrossed in transcribing the section of the index of property damage I'd copied earlier, I hadn't heard the front door open, but the annoyed inflection in Mrs. Smith's voice as the door closed behind her grabbed my attention.

“I've been waiting for you,” her husband replied, the annoyance in his voice outmatching his wife's. “It's late. Where have you been?”

“You know I was at a club meeting.”

Could there have been a second club meeting tonight? Could their need for secrecy be so great that they met again after dark? What could their secret possibly be?

“I'm going to ask you one more time, Mildred. Where have you been?”

“Don't be childish, Meriwether. Now let me pass so I can go to bed.”

As their voices raised, uninhibited by any concern for waking the rest of the house, I slipped from behind the desk and went to the library door. It was slightly ajar from when I'd arrived, and as I peered out, Mildred was attempting to step past the senator. The couple was only a few feet away, in the middle of the entrance hall. Above their heads, the porcelain lamp painted with white cherry blossoms was dimmed, per the hour, casting their shadows across the gleaming parquet floor. He wouldn't let her by. Her normally cheerful countenance was clouded with irritation. As she shoved him aside, he grabbed his wife's wrist and held her tightly in his grasp.

“Meriwether, you're hurting me.” He released his grip but gave no apology. “What is this all about?” Mrs. Smith rubbed her wrist.

“This!” Her husband produced a piece of paper from inside his vest pocket and waved it inches from his wife's face. Her eyes widened as she caught the meaning of the paper.

“Oh, dear.”

“Well?”

“Where did you get it? Were you going through my desk?”

“Where have you been?” her husband asked again, ignoring her questions.

“I was at the Club today, I promise you, and that”—she pointed to the paper her husband was now crumpling in his fist—“is not what you think.”

“It is exactly what I think. And in addition to everything else, this . . . this . . . woman has the audacity to mention my name in connection with Coxey's cockeyed Good Roads Bill.” He shook the fist with the paper in it.

“It came several days ago. I didn't bother you with it, did I?”

“You always go too far, Mildred. Too far.”

“But—”

“What if this got out? What if someone from the press . . . that Harper fellow has been snooping around here enough lately; what if this made it into the papers? I would be ruined, Mildred, ruined! And for what? One of your charity cases? One of your causes?”

“But, Meriwether, isn't that what I'm supposed to do?”

“Only when it is a credit to me, Mildred. When will you ever learn that? You only do what is good for me. I am the one who is important, my career, not you or your silly causes.”

As the senator spoke, he deliberately tore the paper, letting the pieces drift to the floor.

“And from this day forward, I forbid you to attend another meeting of that damn club of yours. I want a woman who is going to be home day and night!”

“But you're never here,” Mildred said, in her defense. Suddenly Spencer came scampering down the stairs, snatching one of the pieces of paper littering the floor, and ran, jumping into Mildred's outstretched arms.

“That damn dog! If he gets in my way again, I'm getting rid of him.”

“Oh, no, Meriwether. Even you wouldn't be so cruel.”

“Don't tempt me. Now go to bed.” Before his wife could comply, the senator strutted into his study and slammed the door.

Carrying Spencer in her arms, Mildred slowly climbed the stairs. The moment she was out of sight, I stepped into the hall and picked up the remaining pieces of paper, scattered about on the floor. I glanced at each one as I collected it, but most of the pieces were too small to provide any useful information. A few, however, were large enough to reveal that it had been a letter addressed to Mrs. Smith from Madam Lottie Fox.

No wonder the senator was livid. If only I knew what the letter said. Did it mention Sarah?

As I tried to read more, I heard a creak on the stair and looked up, alarmed that Mildred or Senator Smith might catch me with the paper fragments. I hastily shoved the papers into the pocket of my dressing gown, several escaping and fluttering back to the floor. I didn't have time to retrieve them.

It was Claude Morris. He was frowning at me.

How long had he been there? Had he overheard the argument? I'd be surprised if the whole house hadn't overheard the argument. It was most likely what drew the secretary from his bed in the first place. But had he seen me with the papers? Luckily neither Senator Smith nor Mildred had mentioned the nature of the letter. If he had overheard, let Claude think the Washington Wives Club was at fault.

“What on earth are you doing up at this time of night, Miss Davish?”

“I could ask the same of you, Mr. Morris.” I glanced at the paper fragments on the floor out of the corner of my eye as I passed the secretary on the stairs. I couldn't retrieve them now. Hopefully he wouldn't notice them and they'd be swept up by the maid in the morning.

“It's good night then, Miss Davish?” Claude said to my back as I ascended the rest of the stairs.

“Good night, Mr. Morris.”

* * *

“What do you mean it's lost?” a man demanded.

After a long night of wondering where Mrs. Smith had really been the night before, a quick, refreshing stroll to the Washington Monument and back along the Mall this morning was what I needed to clear my head. Two reporters loitered outside the house, but I ignored them. Then I headed to the Treasury Building again, where I spent many productive hours copying the entire Confederate half of the property damage index. I felt clearheaded and satisfied when it was time to go. But my peace of mind fled the moment I heard a familiar voice shout outside in the hall. I peeked around the open door.

It was Simeon Harper. His face was red and he was clenching his jaw. “It can't be all lost!”

He was speaking to the same clerk I'd seen with Chester Smith. The man stared at his feet and mumbled something I couldn't understand. And then I caught, “National Bank of the Potomac.” That same bank seemed to come up again and again.

“Everything?” Harper said, disbelieving. The man nodded, still looking at his feet. “How incompetent must someone be to lose everything pertaining to a particular bank? It's not like the Coxeyites stormed the building and all the bank records were destroyed.” Before Harper could say more, the clerk dashed past, making a wide berth of the journalist.

“Fool!” Simeon Harper exclaimed through clenched teeth, staring at the retreating clerk.

I stepped back behind the door to avoid being seen. I was torn. Did I reveal myself and tell Simeon Harper that I'd seen Chester Smith hand the same clerk at least $100 while mentioning the National Bank of the Potomac? And that it might not have been simple incompetence that led to the disappearance of the bank records?

What would Sir Arthur want me to do? I wondered, inwardly cringing as I recalled his aloof behavior toward Walter and me yesterday.

On one hand, Sir Arthur might appreciate me confiding in a man who was his known friend. But on the other, I'd be committing an indiscretion that might compromise the son of the man hosting Sir Arthur. I'd been quick to confide in Simeon Harper before.

And look where that got me
. No, the man's very occupation was defined by indiscretion. Even I had been the subject of his wagging tongue and his careless pen.

Even as I decided that I wanted no part of whatever Simeon Harper was planning, I heard footsteps pass by the door. And when the journalist muttered, “I'll get you somehow, Chester,” I knew for certain I'd chosen right.

C
HAPTER
25

T
he police court was crowded. With the disappointing climax to Coxey's March behind us, the city was clamoring for one last dramatic episode in the saga of the Commonweal of Christ. The fate of the men who were arrested would soon be determined, and no one wanted to miss it. I pulled out my pencil and notebook, as Sir Arthur wanted the entire trial recorded for his perusal later, and waited with the rest.

The marchers, still dirty and disgruntled, shared the room with the likes of Elizabeth Haines, an owner of a dry goods store, and Emily Edson Briggs, one of the major landholders on Capitol Hill, who between them, everyone now knew, had put up Marshal Carl Browne's bail. Along with the journalists who had followed Coxey's Army for months, dozens of witnesses, men and women from every class and every walk of life who had followed the accounts, rubbed elbows as we waited for the trial to begin. I even spied Lieutenant Whittmeyer leaning against a wall. And like so many other women, I held a handkerchief to my nose, hoping to ward off the scent of so many unwashed bodies tightly packed into the gallery of the small courtroom. It did little good.

Judge Thomas F. Miller sat high on his bench. The jury fidgeted in their wooden chairs, while U.S. District Attorney Birney and Assistant District Attorney Mullowney conversed with heads bent toward each other, not even bothering to look up when Carl Browne, in his usual buckskin clothes, and Christopher Columbus Jones, looking haggard having been the only one to spend time in jail, entered the room. Half a dozen Populist congressmen, who had volunteered their services as defense attorneys, accompanied them. Both cheers and jeers arose as the progression headed toward the defendants' table. Neither the madam Lottie Fox, despite having been arrested, nor Jacob Coxey were among them.

Lottie Fox was sincere about knowing the police superintendent, I thought. But what did she do to persuade him to drop the charges against her? Did I really want to know?

“Do you know any of those men, Sarah?” Walter asked, leaning over toward his sister as Browne, Jones, and the congressmen got settled. I sat on the other side of her with Sir Arthur and Simeon Harper on my right.

“I've met Mr. Pence of Colorado and Mr. Thomas Jefferson Hudson of Kansas, but the others I know only by sight and reputation. They aren't from Daniel's party.”

“I wondered because—”

Walter's comment was cut off when the murmur of “Coxey” rose in volume as it spread through the court.

“I was worried he wasn't going to appear,” Simeon Harper said. “They need him as a witness.”

I craned my head and saw Jacob Coxey come into view as he approached the front of the courtroom, trying to find a seat near his companions. Judge Miller peered over the bench and saw him as well.

“I have been informed that a man named Jacob S. Coxey is in the court,” the judge said.

The judge explained that after a police investigation, he had decided to secure a warrant for Coxey's arrest. Shouts of protest boomed from the gallery. The judge put his hand up, demanding silence with that simple gesture.

“I have made out a warrant, but if he is willing to submit, I do not care to have it served upon him.”

“I am ready,” Coxey said, before any more supporters could disrupt the court with their objections.

The court proceeded smoothly as all three defendants were charged with violating the act of July 1, 1882, that regulated the use of the Capitol grounds. Specifically, they were accused of carrying banners—the inconspicuous insignias that the men wore on their lapels—and trampling the shrubs and turf of the grounds. Murmurs rose again, in overwhelming support of the Commonwealers. All around me I heard the criticisms.

“Doesn't Congress have better things to do than to arrest men for treading on the grass?”

“This is an outrage! Such trivial charges demean us all.”

“What about the police? Didn't they bash some bushes while they were clubbing women and children? We should arrest them.”

“What did Coxey and Browne do but want to give a speech? So they stepped on the lawn?”

“Shrubs? Turf? Lapel badges? Why aren't we talking about murder?”

I glanced around quickly to see if I could learn the identity of the speaker of the last comment, but it was impossible to tell who had said it.

Again the judge insisted on silence, this time banging his gavel and demanding it. Once the room settled into a quiet murmur of discontent, witnesses were called in the three men's defense: Journalists, who Browne had once called “argus-eyed demons of Hell,” spoke on their behalf, including several who testified that not only had the police themselves been standing on the grass but that they had purposefully driven citizens onto it.

They're absolutely right,
I thought. I still can't get the grass stains out of the dress I was wearing that day.

Several witnesses raised doubts as to whether Coxey himself had stepped on the Capitol grass. On cross-examination of one witness, asking of the thousands of people cheering when Coxey arrived at the Capitol, the prosecutor asked, “Disorderly, were they not?”

“Oh, no,” the journalist said. “They had a right to cheer. They were American citizens.” It elicited subsequent cheers from the gallery that were quickly squelched by Judge Miller.

And then a black man, Edward Johnson, who had already received a thirty-day sentence for disorderly conduct, took the stand and swore that he saw billy clubs flying and that he'd been clubbed over the head by a police officer.

“Is that what happened, Hattie?” Sir Arthur whispered to me, a look of unexpected sympathy in his eyes.

“Yes, sir. That is what happened.”

“Inexcusable.” I agreed but kept any comments to myself.

During the man's riveting account, I kept my head down and focused on taking my notes. Sir Arthur would not appreciate my showing the tumult I felt as I relived the riot through Mr. Johnson's words. Nor would it do to notice the many eyes that strayed in my direction, as if my sling were a flag, when Mr. Johnson spoke of defenseless women being clubbed down in the grass. Walter and Sarah both watched me, concern on their faces, but I gave them no reason to suspect anything was wrong. Or at least that's what I hoped.

When Mr. Johnson stepped down, Judge Miller announced that he would refuse to hear any other witnesses who might speak of the policemen's conduct. Coxey, Browne, and Jones were on trial, not the Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police Department.

That too is inexcusable,
I thought, but again kept it to myself. And then a movement caught my eye.

“Daniel?”

“What was that, Hattie?” Sarah said, engrossed in the next witness's story. I'd said it out loud? I hadn't meant to. But it was too late. Sarah's attention was fully on me. “What did you say about Daniel?”

“I was wondering why he didn't come.”

“He wanted to avoid any misunderstandings. He doesn't want anyone mistaking him for a Populist. So he thought it was better if he stayed away.”

“I see.”

And I had seen, literally. As I'd tried to keep my gaze from the witness box, I'd caught a glimpse of someone moving stealthily along the wall. He had only been in my sight for a few moments, but I couldn't mistake him for anyone else. It was Daniel Clayworth.

Was that why he was sneaking along the wall, hoping not to be seen? Then why come at all? And why lie to your wife about it? Had he simply changed his mind? I hoped so.

The trial went on until finally the prosecutors delivered their summations. Assistant District Attorney Mullowney condemned Jacob Coxey as a self-aggrandizing hypocrite, citing that the leader of the Commonweal of Christ stayed at hotels while his “army” camped in the rough, that he secured the best legal representation for himself while supplying less competent representation for Browne and Jones.

District Attorney Birney was worse. During his speech, hoping to ridicule the idea that these men could possibly represent workingmen, he pointed toward Browne and said, “That man, a working man? A man who looks as though he never did a day's work in his life! Save the world! A fakir, a charlatan, and a mountebank who dresses in ridiculous garments and exhibits himself to the curious multitudes at ten cents a head!”

And then Mr. Birney turned to Coxey. “The other man a laboring man! A wealthy man, who owns a stock farm and stone quarries, who admits that he has received all the money contributions for the movement bearing his name, and has never made an accounting.”

Little was said about the three men trespassing on the Capitol grass until Judge Miller gave the jury their instructions. “The people have the perfect right to ventilate their views, but they must do it in a proper way, and within the law.”

Marshal Browne took the opportunity to tell the court that he fully expected to be convicted on a technicality. “Christ was convicted on a technicality!”

And then the jury was dismissed. We waited but two hours before the jury returned a guilty verdict. The three men, free on bond, were to be sentenced later.

The verdict had not been a surprise, though I was dismayed nonetheless. Jacob Coxey, Marshal Browne, and their marching army simply wanted to give a speech, illuminating all the sorrow and suffering in this country. Despite all the rumors and fears, hundreds of men marched into the nation's capital peaceably and, for all their efforts, were arrested for walking on the grass. But knowing men like Senator Smith, it didn't come as a surprise. Like Daniel, the senator wanted to stay clear of the trial and any assumed association with “those indigent crack-brains.”

How quickly he forgot his visit to Coxey's camp,
I thought.

But what was a surprise were the mumblings, the complaints, and the criticisms I heard as I followed Sir Arthur and Walter out of the crowded courtroom. They weren't only about the verdict. Everyone was talking about Jasper Neely and Annie's deaths.

“Sure, Coxey trespassed, but did he kill one of his own?”

“Not one word was uttered about the dead man or woman.”

“What is this country coming to? A woman is drowned, a man is stabbed in broad daylight, and no one cares. But heaven forbid you walk on the grass!”

“Maybe one of the police killed that man. That's why the judge wouldn't hear anything more about the riot.”

“No one in the Commonweal killed Jasper or drowned that woman. They are innocent, I swear to you.”

The last voice was familiar. I stopped and looked around me. A few feet away, surrounded by journalists and other spectators, was Billy McBain.

I started toward the group surrounding Billy, when Lieutenant Whittmeyer stepped out of the crowd directly in front of me.

“Staying out of my investigations, right, Miss Davish?” he said, a smirk on his face, as if daring me to ignore his warnings.

“Yes, I have no desire to cross you, Lieutenant.”

“Good, just checking.” The man slipped back into the crowd. I shuddered. Never having to speak to him again was reason enough to stay out of his investigation.

But that didn't mean I couldn't listen like everyone else, I thought, as I proceeded again toward Billy McBain. I was surprised to see Senator Abbott, his planter's hat tipped back on his forehead, standing next to Billy.

“But, Billy,” one the reporters said, “how can you be so sure? Neely was one of you. And he was witness to the prostitute's drowning. Don't you think that's quite a coincidence?”

“First, Jasper arrived after the girl drowned in the carp pond. I've always been clear on that. And second, as you say, he was one of us. You've heard Jasper preach. You've heard Marshal Browne preach. You know what General Coxey stands for. Our march was inspired by the soul of Christ to cast the light on the plight of the unemployed worker, to gain support for the Good Roads project. No one supported this goal more than Jasper Neely. Why would General Coxey or Marshal Browne have any cause to kill him?”

I wondered that as well. But did Mr. McBain know about the secret meetings Jasper Neely conducted the morning of the march? The morning he died? And one of them being with the man standing next to him?

“But what if they argued about the best way to accomplish their goal?” one of the journalists asked. “Look at what happened between Browne and the Great Unknown.”

“But they didn't,” Billy McBain said. “I spoke to Jasper myself a little while before they found him dead. He was more enthusiastic, more confident about the success of the Good Roads project then I'd ever seen him. Do you think he'd be that exuberant if he was at odds with the general?”

The reporters grumbled and shook their heads.

“But what about someone else in the camp?” someone else shouted.

“We're brothers. We bonded like only those who have marched halfway across this country for a cause could. I can't believe anyone in the Commonweal of Christ could've done this.” Senator Abbott leaned over and whispered something in Billy McBain's ear. “That's all I have to say.”

“Then who did?” someone shouted, as McBain, with Senator Abbott at his side, tried to push his way through the crowd.

That's what I'd like to know,
I thought as I watched Billy McBain disappear among the multitude outside the courthouse.

“Miss Davish!”

With Billy McBain gone, as one, the reporters swiveled on their heels and turned on me. With notebooks and pencils held high, they vied for a spot closest to me. As I stepped back to put distance between us, they moved in closer. Soon I was surrounded by reporters shouting their questions at me.