A March to Remember (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

“I
believe in bettering the condition of the workingman!” The shouting accosted me the moment I emerged from the White House. A clean-shaven young man in a dusty brown derby, standing in the carriageway beneath the columns, punched his fist into his open palm with each word to accentuate his point. Several women, still arriving for the reception, quickly shied away and gave him a wide berth. I stood my ground, sympathetic to his message, but not wanting to get any closer.

“That can't be done by talk,” he yelled as two large policemen dashed past me. They confronted the fist-pounding young man, insisting he leave. He refused to budge.

“There's only one way to do it, only one way of waking up the ‘soulless capitalists' who own Washington,” the young man shouted, as the two policemen grabbed him by the arms and began dragging him away. “By blowing up the whole damned works, the Capitol, the White House, Congress, everything.”

Could the city be in real danger after all? I wondered. Why would he be so careless as to reveal his plans to the White House police beforehand?

Putting my back to the anarchist, still spouting his plans for the destruction of the city, I hastened on my way, annoyed to have been delayed.
His rhetoric isn't helping anyone,
I thought. With my foot in midair above the top step, my progress was again hampered when a hand gripped my shoulder.

“Let go of me,” I said, yanking my shoulder away.

“Miss Davish!” a man's sharp voice exclaimed as I nearly lost my footing on the stairs. He grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me back. My feet firmly on the ground, I pulled out of his grip and stared the man in the face.

“Mr. Morris?”

“I didn't mean to startle you.”

“You didn't.” I sounded more peevish than I would've liked. Annoyed both at myself for overreacting and at him for presuming to grip my shoulder, I said sternly, “What do you want, Mr. Morris?”

“I . . . I . . .” he stammered. “I'm finished here and thought I'd walk back with you.”

He being Senator Smith's confidential clerk and private secretary, I knew better than to ask what business took Claude Morris to the White House. I admit, though, I was curious. Since the day Sir Arthur and I came to Washington as guests of Senator Meriwether Lewis Smith, I'd been curious about what role Mr. Morris played in the senator's household. Similar to what I did for Sir Arthur, Mr. Morris performed the basic duties of stenographer and typist, saw to the senator's correspondence and schedule and any other general tasks the senator might require. But that's where my knowledge of what he did ended. I'd only been in Washington for a couple of weeks, but Claude Morris appeared to do far more for his employer than simply the duties of a private secretary. (Of course, the same could be said for me.) Mr. Morris appeared to be the senator's liaison between other members of Congress, his font of knowledge regarding all things political, his adviser, as well as, dare I say, his spy.

Claude Morris was a pleasant-looking man, with keen eyes, a long, thick, well-trimmed mustache, and a few fawn curls swept back high on his forehead. He wore the same tailored dark suit and derby hat that seemed the uniform of men of his class and position. He was always ready with a shy smile for any of the ladies, including me, but was slightly pompous when given the chance to speak at any length. Yet I was still surprised that he'd grabbed my shoulder. I hadn't thought his presumption went that far.

“Thank you, but I'm not going back right away. I'm meeting someone at the train station.”

“I'll escort you there, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morris, but I'm quite used to walking about on my own.” I tried in vain to keep my annoyance out of my voice.

“Yes, I've heard about your outlandish habit of wandering about the city in the early-morning hours. Risky, if you ask me.” I didn't ask. “You may be unaware, though, that these are unusual days. Already men of unknown quality have made their way from Coxey's camp into the city. We are preparing, even as we speak, for the eventuality of the army as a whole attempting to approach the Capitol. Simply put, with that Populism-spouting, Theosophy-touting rabble heading our way soon, it's not safe for a woman to be rambling about on her own.”

“I'm walking to the train station, Mr. Morris. I'm not rambling about.”

“But you must've heard that man threatening to blow up the White House and the Capitol just now?”

“Of course, Mr. Morris. And the police have him well in hand.”

“Well, if you won't let me escort you, mind that you don't stray from Pennsylvania Avenue until you get there. No shortcuts toward B Street, particularly not between Pennsylvania and Ohio. We wouldn't want you to inadvertently find yourself in Murder Bay, now, would we? I don't think the senator or your Sir Arthur would like to hear that, even in the day, you were mistaken for, shall we say, ‘a fallen woman'?”

Murder Bay? I'd never heard of it and said so.

“Maybe you've heard it referred to as ‘Hooker's Division' after that general's habit of sending his troops there to let off some steam?”

Now,
that
rang a bell. In my research for Sir Arthur, a prominent Civil War historian, I'd read about the time when General Hooker and his men had quartered inside the city. I'd come across that name before, “Hooker's Division,” but had only read hints of the scandalous behavior being concentrated in that part of the city. I'd had no idea it was nearby.

“I may have. What is it?”

Claude Morris was more than enthusiastic in his description of a neighborhood notorious for its gambling, brothels, and crime. I was amused as he attempted to impart the depravity of the area while using language suitable for a lady's ear, such as “young men out for misadventure,” “odoriferous alleys in need of civic attention,” and “misguided girls who walk the streets at night.” Curious, I was an attentive audience. I wasn't surprised the city had such a neighborhood; most larger cities do, whether we ladies are supposed to know about them or not. What did surprise me, if I understood correctly from the directions that Mr. Morris made me promise to follow, was that it was merely blocks away from where we stood. I had no intention of wandering into the den of criminals, but it made me bristle to have this man, several years younger than me, dictate how I was to traverse the city.

As Mr. Morris finished, he tilted his head in anticipation of my response. I silently counted backward from ten in French.

“Thank you, Mr. Morris,” I said calmly. “I will heed your warning and make mine a direct route to the station. Good day!”

How easily you lie, Hattie Davish!
I admonished myself. Yet I felt strangely at ease with my deception.

He smiled, satisfied he'd done his good deed for the day, tipped his hat, and headed down the steps to the circle drive. I waited and watched him until he crossed the street and entered Lafayette Square, a tree-lined public park north of the White House. When he passed the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his rearing horse and turned toward the Smith home, Mr. Morris disappeared from view beneath the trees. I then skipped down the stairs and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue in search of a shortcut through the so-called Murder Bay.

* * *

Is that what a fallen woman looks like?

I'd ignored Claude Morris's advice, a circuitous route from Fifteenth to B Street NW, cutting across the Mall at Fourteenth to B Street SW and then back up Sixth to the train station, and instead took the more direct route down Pennsylvania Avenue to the station. I admit I cut down Fourteenth Street, which crossed Ohio Avenue, in direct defiance of Mr. Morris's advice, as the man was too presumptuous toward me. In my mind, we were on the same social and economic level. On the whole, we held the same position for our respective employers, equals, if I may be so bold, and I was not obliged to take his advice. Of course, he saw it differently. Since the day I'd arrived, he'd taken on the role of brotherly protector, which I neither asked for nor was in need of. And as the days wore on, his condescension had worn thin. Without offending our host, Senator Smith, or my employer, Sir Arthur, I'd managed to defy almost every directive, command, and “piece of advice” Claude Morris bestowed upon me.

But I'd also strolled down Fourteenth because I was curious. It was past noon and the street was noisy and bustling with buggy and wagon traffic, as men in dark suits and derby hats, with papers, books, or satchels tucked beneath their arms, rushed about. I even spied other women: two elderly ladies wearing bonnets and taking turns carrying a pampered Boston terrier and a young woman pulling a toy wagon stacked with Bibles. Hence I saw no danger in my being mistaken for a resident of this questionable neighborhood nor of having my reputation damaged by finding myself strolling its broad avenue on my way to the train station. Even about my person I had so little of value, unless a thief valued the ostrich feathers in my hat or my new watch pin, that I wouldn't be a likely target. So I took the shortcut for the chance of getting a glimpse of a gambling house or a bagnio.

Would I even be able to detect from the building front what depravities occurred within? I doubted signs swayed above doors with peeling red paint, reading B
AWDY
H
OUSE
or G
AMBLING
D
EN
, so no mistake could be made. Criminal activity such as this, mere blocks from where Frances Cleveland kissed her children good night, wasn't going to announce its presence blatantly, I was certain. So how would I know?

I glanced at each structure casually as to not bring attention to myself and was surprised to find several buildings, some covering entire blocks, that did indeed announce their purpose: Andrew J. Joice & Co. Carriage Factory, E. E. Jackson & Co. Lumberyard, Pettit & Dripps's Eagle Iron Works, all seemingly respectable. Even the National Theatre was housed on the corners of Fourteenth and Pennsylvania Avenue, mere blocks from where Mr. Morris claimed was a “veritable den of depravity.” Was Claude Morris, at this moment, laughing at my expense? I had read the term Hooker's Division, but knowing little of what the term meant, he could have invented the whole thing and I'd be none the wiser.

And then I saw her.

Half a block down on C Street, a woman wearing only a white muslin chemise and drawers, with her long blond hair loose about her shoulders, sat on a small second-floor balcony enjoying the warm sun. Compelled by morbid curiosity, I turned onto C Street in order to walk beneath her. She had a brown tabby cat in her lap, which she stroked methodically, and her face was partially obscured by the copy of
Godey's Magazine and Lady's Book
raised in her hand. Her feet were propped up on the railing, with the back of her legs all the way to her knee clearly visible to all who chanced by. I covered my eyes, embarrassed to witness such a manner of undress, only to peek through a crack in my gloved fingers and stare at this woman, so different and yet not. Standing below her, I felt at once both inferior to and almost envious of this woman, who was more free to do as she pleased than I could ever dream. When was the last time I was unrestrained by a corset or had leisure time enough to read a magazine in the middle of the day? And yet, I pitied her. She would never fit into society. She had to cater to the whims of men's desires. She would never have a family and children. She would never . . . Was I so different? Despite my distaste for her livelihood, who was I to pity her?

“But for the grace of God . . .” I whispered to myself.

As an orphaned girl, if not for my father's foresight in directing me toward a respectable vocation and the patronage of Sir Arthur, I could've found myself in this woman's position. I shuddered at the horror of the thought even as I peeked at her again. I then diverted my eyes properly and walked brusquely past. In doing so, I nearly bumped into a fair-haired man about my age in a well-creased slate fedora, approaching the front door of that same unremarkable, unmarked building. Understandably distracted, he mumbled, “Excuse me,” and tipped his hat, all without giving me a glance. His eyes were focused elsewhere.

Maybe the girl on the balcony was the “swaying sign” I'd imagined.

I continued on my way, with exceedingly slow steps, until I stopped in the darkened doorway of a tenement building, unable to take my eyes away. I'd be ashamed of indulging my curiosity later, but for now nothing was more compelling, more shocking, than the scene before me.

The man tapped on the door, which flew open immediately. A broad, middle-aged woman with unnaturally blond hair that could only have been the result of dye treatment, a round face, and small eyes that never looked at any one thing for long, stepped out and deliberately closed the door behind her. Unlike the girl above them on the balcony, she was dressed respectably, and expensively, in a beige silk tea gown.

Was she too a fallen woman or could this be what they called a madam? Or were there other functions for women within a brothel I didn't know about? I was woefully ignorant about these things.

The couple immediately began a heated discussion, the woman speaking through tears, but I was too far away to discern a word. The man pressed the woman's shoulder. The woman nodded—reluctantly, it seemed to me—and I expected them to disappear inside. Instead, the man surprised me by pulling out a small notebook and pencil. How often had I done the same to jot down a note or add an item to an ever-growing list?

The man wrote something down, looked up, and with a nod from the woman, jotted down something else. Who was this man? What could he possibly want to know about the life and worries of a fallen woman? Was he a policeman? Was that why the woman was upset? But no, their conversation was not confrontational, the opposite of what I'd assume: he was patting her shoulder gently, shaking his head in consolation, and offering her his handkerchief. These two knew each other and were on friendly terms. But then what were they discussing?