Betina Krahn (39 page)

“What are you going to do?” Beatrice asked.

The old man swallowed another dose of gout medicine and shuddered as it hit his stomach.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Nothing illegal …” she said, scowling intently at him.

Hurst looked up at Connor with thinly disguised impatience.

“She’s new at politics, isn’t she?”

BEATRICE’S FIRST PRIORITY
was to establish a headquarters for the campaign. On a suggestion from Alice, she arranged to rent some rooms in Woodhull House for their use. They moved into rooms in the new annex below Priscilla’s dormitory and set about organizing furnishings and securing some of the printed campaign materials Tammany Hall had already ordered. Beatrice put Priscilla to work checking the newspapers each day and clipping all articles related to the campaign. They sent invitations to reporters to come and visit their new headquarters, and Beatrice met informally with them and arranged lunches and dinners for Connor with various reporters. Beatrice also met with the leaders of the National
American Woman Suffrage Association, and persuaded them to endorse Connor publicly and to provide him with campaign volunteers.

Lacey Waterman and Frannie Excelsior arrived the very next morning with a platoon of women eager to help. Beatrice gratefully handed them stacks of freshly printed posters and pamphlets, and bags of campaign buttons to distribute. The women left in an adventuresome mood, but they straggled back in mid-afternoon looking rumpled and dazed, telling horrifying stories of being trailed by gangs of toughs who tore down every poster they put up and who intimidated them physically.

“Damned bullies!” Frannie staggered in with a rip in her jacket, a scrape on her cheek, and her felt boater hat squashed beyond recognition. “Too cowardly for a fair fight.” She held up two wiry fists. “The buzzards came at me four at a time … yanking the posters out of my hands … pushing and shoving. And not one man came to help me or even yelled at them to stop!”

The others commiserated, deeply shaken and angered by their treatment.

“That’s men for you,” one declared caustically.

Beatrice couldn’t fault them for their attitude; she was just as shocked as they were. But she had to refocus their anger and put the blame where it belonged.

“It’s not
men
,” she said, rallying the troops. “It’s Tammany Hall. And whether we like it or not, they’ll keep doing this until the election. If you’re game, we’ll try again tomorrow.” They reluctantly agreed, and she forced a smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.”

Connor was furious at what had happened to their volunteers. Tammany was known for using strong-arm tactics in elections, he said, but to his knowledge, they had never stooped to intimidating and abusing women.
It was little comfort to think that they had reduced Tammany to a desperate, new low.

“If they won’t respect us as competitors, you’d think they would at least respect us as women,” Beatrice said irritably.

“Well, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am … them bein’ your friends an’ all … but they don’t exactly look like regular women,” Dipper said with a wince. “You can tell they’re ‘shriekin’ sisters’ from a mile off.”

“Just because they don’t carry frilly parasols, mince steps, and bat their eyelashes …” But Dipper was right. Most of the NAWSA women wore tailored clothes, spectacles, and masculine-looking hats. An idea began to form.

The next morning, when the women arrived, she presented them with a pile of borrowed clothing, mostly flowered dresses and ruffled aprons. The volunteers quickly got into the spirit of what they were being asked to do and donned the oversized dresses and put extra silk flowers on their hats. Then Bebe pulled out a stack of pillows donated from every bed in Woodhull House and began stuffing them under the ladies’ dresses. The women, some of whom had white hair, thought the idea outlandish but gamely went along. Shortly, an army of very “pregnant” women emerged from Woodhull House to cover the streets with posters and handbills and “Barrow for Congress” buttons.

Beatrice joined them dressed in a noisy red-and-white print and a hat sprouting silk poppies. As she waddled along the streets, putting up posters, she passed a number of suspicious-looking clumps of men who eyed her but, seeing her bulging “belly,” left her alone. Impending motherhood was still sacred, it seemed, even among Tammany’s thugs.

The headquarters rang with laughter as the others returned and told their experiences with gangs of men confounded by a sudden rash of expectant mothers.

“It won’t work forever,” Beatrice told them, grinning, “but if it gets us through the next week, that will be good enough.”

Then, as they were removing their disguises, a pair of women appeared at the headquarters door … women whose style of dress and movement left no doubt as to their profession. When the newcomers swayed into the room on a cloud of French perfume, the ladies of the NAWSA backed away as if afraid of contamination. Beatrice heard the noise drop and hurried to investigate.

There stood Mary Kate and Annie dressed in flashy satins, exaggerated bustles, and picture-book hats … one dripping with ermine tails and the other with feather boas. Beatrice watched the volunteers pull back as the pair entered and was momentarily at a loss. What could they be doing here?

“Hiya, Bebe!” Mary Kate called, and Annie greeted her with similar buoyancy. “Dipper come by the other night. He said you an’ th’ congressman could use a bit o’ help. We tho’t we’d come an’ offer our services.”

“That’s most civic minded of you. We’d be grateful for the help.” Ignoring the mutters of her suffragist friends, Beatrice gave the Oriental’s ladies a broad smile and gathered up some printed materials. “I should warn you. We’ve been having a bit of trouble with some of the city’s rougher element. Tammany’s toughs have been harassing our workers and ripping down our posters.”

Mary Kate grinned and glanced at the poker-faced suffrage contingent. “Ye just ’ave to know how to
handle
men. We’ll get ’em
up
for you.”

As the pair sauntered out with their arms laden with
campaign materials, Annie paused by a suffragist still wearing her pregnancy disguise and gave the woman’s padded belly a tap.

“There are ways to keep that from happenin’, ya know.”

The next afternoon, there were two campaign forces at work for Connor Barrow on the streets of the Fourth District, and they couldn’t have been more different: soiled doves and mothers-to-be, traditionally the opposite ends of the feminine spectrum. Occasionally, members of the two groups came together on a street corner with only one lamppost, and it was a standoff to see who would get the privilege of posting the handbill. In the end, there were far more posters and handbills put up than torn down, and once again, “Connor Barrow for U.S. Congress” was being seen all over town.

Connor himself, however, was having difficulty being seen anywhere. He tried to keep his planned schedule of appearances, but Tammany gangs knew where he would appear and caused disruptions wherever he went … tossing catcalls and rotten vegetables at Connor and the first punch at their fellow spectators. Twice, full-scale brawls broke out, preventing Connor from saying much of anything. The second time it happened Connor was angry enough to climb down off the scaffolding and throw a few punches himself. He arrived back at Wood-hull House with a bruised jaw, a smashed lip, and a foul mood.

Beatrice ordered him into a chair and sent Priscilla for iodine and bandages … both of which he refused. “It’s not that bad,” he told her, testing his battered lip from inside and out.

“Yes, it is. It’s monstrous,” she declared, fierce with
protective impulses she had heretofore associated only with Priscilla and Consolidated.

“You forget.” He looked up at her with a pain-filled smile. “I’ve seen these things from Tammany’s side. They have to be really desperate to use this much muscle. We must have them worried.”

“Hurray for us,” she said, scowling. “By that logic, when they beat you to a bloody pulp, we should break out the champagne.”

“Exactly,” he said with a wink at Dipper and Shorty, who chuckled.

It was no laughing matter for Beatrice, however. Over the next week she watched the disruptions escalate and saw the toll they were taking on Connor. She found herself holding her breath each time he left the headquarters and growing quietly more frantic each time he was late returning. She tried dispatching Dipper and Shorty with Connor. All three came back with bruises, gashes, and wrenched muscles. She tried having Dipper and Shorty recruit a few fellows who wouldn’t mind enforcing order at Connor’s speeches. They made a difference—briefly. The disrupters returned in even greater force and a sizable donnybrook ensued.

“Where were the police?” Beatrice demanded as she and Alice and Priscilla tended the minor wounds inflicted on their security force.

“In Croker’s back pocket,” Connor said darkly.

Beatrice felt a chill as she looked at his grim face and realized how thoroughly Tammany possessed the city. There was no agency or authority in the entire city that operated without its influence … not even the police. No wonder Connor had been reluctant to take them on. He knew better than anyone what an uphill battle they faced.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Priscilla came up with a suggestion.

“Aunt Bebe … remember that young man … that detective … Mr. Blackwell? Maybe he could get us some police help.”

Bebe regarded her with nothing short of amazement. Since Priscilla’s break with Jeffrey she had been moody and unpredictable. It was encouraging to have her take an interest in the success of Connor’s campaign.

“What an excellent idea,” Beatrice said, putting her arm around Priscilla. “Why don’t you and Dipper pay the good detective a call and invite him to come and see us?”

The next day, Detective James Blackwell arrived early at their campaign headquarters, with two patrolmen in tow. When he heard what was happening, he looked from Bebe to Connor to Priscilla and he smiled.

“Well, it’s always in the best interest of the city for campaign appearances to stay orderly. I think I can get my captain to agree to assign some men to it.”

Priscilla stood a bit straighter as she returned the young detective’s smile, and Beatrice could have sworn that she blushed.

That very afternoon, a dozen uniformed police appeared at a rally where Connor was scheduled to speak. At the first sign of disturbance, they moved in to quell it and hauled off the ringleaders, and Connor was able to finish his speech for the first time in a week.

Judging by reports in the newspapers and the escalating resistance from Tammany Hall, they seemed to be making headway. Then, after two major newspapers came out with re-endorsements of Connor, things became markedly more tense. Shopkeepers with “Barrow for Congress” posters in their windows found those windows broken. The newspapers who had backed Connor
suddenly found their papers stolen off the streets and ripped from their newsboys’ hands. Woodhull House was splashed with paint and several halls where he spoke were damaged under cover of night.

After visiting a dry-goods store owner who had been terrorized and warned to stay away from the polls, Connor agreed they would need additional muscle on election day, to make certain their voters could get past Tammany’s shoulder hitters and into the voting booths. He sent Dipper and Shorty out to recruit additional help.

Just six days before the election, on a bright and frosty morning, they awakened to a story in the early editions telling of a gang caught attempting to steal the ballots for the upcoming election. The men, all Irish immigrants and well known to the local police, had been caught red-handed. They claimed not to know who had hired them, but Connor said it was clearly Tammany at work. The newspapers seemed to agree. For the first time in quite a while, editors took pens in hand to call for election reforms and for an end to Tammany tyranny at the ballot box.

Tammany took out large advertisements in the newspapers and printed up handbills disclaiming responsibility for the dastardly attempt to sabotage the election. Connor said they were a lying bunch of hypocrites and was ready to call for an audit of the ballots, to be certain they were properly printed. But Hurst Barrow, who had stopped by to inspect their headquarters, eyed his grandson’s indignation and pulled him aside.

“No audit. The ballots are just fine,” Hurst assured him.

“And what if we walk into the voting booths on election day and my name isn’t there?” Connor demanded irritably.

“It’s there, all right. Now.” The old man’s eyes twinkled with mischief and Connor came alert and studied him.

“What do you mean,
‘now’
?”

“Police never pay attention when somebody is putting something
into
a locked room. They only notice when somebody’s taking things
out.”

That was all he would say, but it was enough. Hurst Barrow had somehow made good on his promise to take care of the ballots. Connor met the old man’s gaze and for a long moment they stared at each other in the way of men who know each other well enough to need few words. It was then that Connor realized that the old man truly wanted him to win.

In that moment, both began to release the pain, recriminations, and estrangement caused by what had happened between them years ago. They had a second chance, both realized, and in the rich silence that followed they agreed to finally forget the outcome of the first one.

ELECTION DAY DAWNED
clear and unexpectedly cold, but nothing short of a blizzard would have deterred the public from turning out in record numbers. By ten o’clock in the morning, the streets fairly crackled with the electricity of democracy in action. Every group in the city with an ax to grind turned out into the streets on election day; from charity mavens to sidewalk evangelists … from temperance advocates to union organizers … from immigrant cultural societies to nativist groups protesting immigration.

Adding to the charged atmosphere were the beer and Irish whiskey distributed freely to voters who had done or
were about to do their civic duty. As the voters exited the bunting-draped polls, they were directed to the beer wagons parked nearby, and many of them could be seen heading back into the voting line after a few beers. The growing crowds were laced with pickpockets, streetwalkers, sleight-of-hand artists, election odds-makers, and roving gangs of youths. With such a volatile crowd about, it was little wonder shops around precinct polling places had closed for the day and shuttered their premises.