Betina Krahn (40 page)

The National American Woman Suffrage Association planned their customary election day march to end at the precinct where Connor would make an appearance and cast his own vote. The women arrived at Woodhull House mid-morning and donned sashes and put together placards touting both their candidate and their cause. Connor watched them preparing and turned to Beatrice, who had just pinned a red-and-white sash proclaiming “Barrow for Congress” diagonally over her dark blue wool jacket.

“Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, it could get a little rough. McCloskey votes in the same precinct, and Tammany will undoubtedly turn out.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about this group. They’re no strangers to marches or to election day celebrations,” Bebe assured him, straightening his tie and pausing to admire him. He looked quite “congressional” in his black cutaway coat and charcoal pinstripe trousers. “Besides, Detective Blackwell has asked for every available patrolman to be assigned to the area, and Dipper and Shorty have stationed men at every polling place to make sure your supporters get through. If we need them, they’ll be there.”

Connor pulled her down the hall, into Ardis Gerhardt’s
office, and into his arms. For a moment he just held her, looking at her, his face filled with tension. There had been so little time for the two of them these last two weeks. He had to pray that sacrifice would be worth it in the end.

“I want you to know, Bebe,” he said tightly, “that whatever happens, I’ll always be grateful for your love, your help, and your faith in me. I love you more than I can ever say.”

“I love you, too,” she said, trying to speak past the tears collecting in her throat. “And you’re going to win.”

“I know,” he said with a flicker of uneasiness. “But if I don’t …”

She kissed him to stop him from saying any more. They were together in this, her kiss said. They were both lovers and partners. They remained in each other’s arms for a few moments … Bebe listening to the reassuring thud of his heart beneath her cheek … Connor inhaling her along with the scent of her hair. There came a discreet knock on the door and they released each other … both achingly aware that the next time they embraced, their hopes would have been either fulfilled or dashed to pieces.

Out in the street, the women of the NAWSA formed ranks, five across, behind a huge horizontal banner, proclaiming “Send Barrow to Congress to Work for the Woman Vote!” Connor took up a place just behind that banner along with Bebe, Alice, Lacey Frannic, Esther Rose, and Carrie Chapman Catt. More than fifty women followed as they marched down the street toward the polls.

Five blocks later the street narrowed appreciably due to stopped wagons and carriages and milling crowds of people. They had to narrow ranks and wait at times for
the street to clear. It was about that time that they were joined by a number of women in flashy clothes, carrying placards supporting Connor. When Beatrice turned to see how things were going in the rear, she spotted Mary Kate, Pansy, Millie, Annie, and Eleanor in their ranks, waving at her.

By the time their group reached the polling place, a lofty old brick building called Veterans’ Hall, they had attracted quite a following. Some people smiled and waved, others booed and yelled at them to go home and tend to their children. Connor waved to his supporters, then took Beatrice’s hand and pulled her up the crowded steps with him toward the voters’ entrance.

They were bumped and jostled by a number of inebriated voters and somewhere in the press of the crowd, she stumbled and lost her grip on his hand. When she righted herself and looked up, he was nowhere to be seen. She heard him call her name, but had difficulty locating him … until the noise and movement buffeting her abruptly lessoned. Standing on tiptoes, she caught a glimpse of a huge beer wagon drawn by massive high-stepping horses approaching Veterans’ Hall. Atop that wagon sat Boss Croker, Charles Murphy, and a number of other men she took to be Tammany dignitaries … they, like Connor, were dressed in elegant top hats and swallowtail coats.

“Here’s our man … Bert McCloskey! Come to do his duty and vote,” Croker roared, in a bald play to the appreciative crowd. “I wonder who he’ll vote for!” There was a cry of approval from the Tammany supporters present. Then Croker looked down and spotted Connor standing on the middle of the steps. “Would you look at that.” He pointed at Connor with a sneer. “These days they’ll let just anybody vote!”

“Not just anybody, Croker,” Connor called above the noise of the well-lubricated crowd. “There are a lot of people here who want and need the vote, but don’t yet have it.” And the women of the NAWSA let loose a cheer. At the front of their contingent, Frannie raised a fist and began a chant in a cadence quickly joined by the others: “We won’t rest ’til we get our vote!”

A male wag in the crowd shouted back: “And we won’t rest if you
do
!”

Connor was stopped at the doors by several beefy shoulder hitters blocking the only way inside. Connor asked them to move, but they crossed their arms and refused. Up out of the crowd came Dipper and Shorty, who beckoned to their boys. A number of equally brawny longshoremen shoved their way up out of the crowd to stand at Connor’s back. The odds were nearly even, and the prospect of an evenly matched fight was enough to give Tammany’s thugs pause.

It was a stalemate until Croker huffed and panted his way to the top of the steps. “Well, well …” He halted not far away, glaring at Connor through bloated, froglike eyes. “There’s garbage on the steps.”

“There certainly is,” Connor said, returning Croker’s scrutiny. “You’ve hit a new low, Croker. Blocking your opponent from even casting his own vote.”

After a tense moment, Croker jerked his head and the men blocking Connor’s way melted to the sides to allow him to pass. Croker turned to comment to the crowd, “One more vote won’t make him any difference.”

“One more vote may be all it takes to bring you down!” came a woman’s voice from the crowd. Frannie Excelsior broke free from the NAWSA delegation and charged up the steps with her placard in her hands. But before she was halfway up, she was met by a Tammany shoulder
hitter who tried to wrestle the placard from her. She yielded it to him and while his hands were busy trying to break up the placard, she belted him in the midsection. He grunted and went reeling.

Like a spark landing in dry grass, that one quick burst bit of violence was all it took to ignite the crowd. Instantly, the pushing and straining going on all over the tightly packed crowd became earnest shoves and punches. Out came billy clubs and shillelaghs, blackjacks and old-fashioned cudgels. The hours of beer and boredom had taken their toll and the crowd erupted in a massive brawl.

Connor’s first thought was of Bebe, lost somewhere on the steps in the churning mob. But a shove from one of Tammany’s enforcers sent him flying back out the door and from that moment, he only had time to defend himself and those near him who were being shoved and trampled underfoot. Dipper and Shorty tried to reach him, but then found themselves under attack and had to retreat under a barrage of blows. In a moment, it was nearly impossible to tell who was on which side; everyone simply sided with those they knew and defended themselves as best they could.

Dazed from a blow and galvanized by the pain in his reinjured lip, Connor spotted a thick form dressed in black top hat and tails, and headed for it. He grabbed Croker’s arm and spun him around … planting a savage right fist squarely in the boss’s porcine face. Croker flailed and went down with a cry of pain and a gush of blood. Connor’s satisfaction was cut short by a vicious blow he didn’t see coming.

Suddenly, everyone was fighting. Young and old, male and female, Tammany and independent, tavern keepers and temperance society members, trade unionists and
management stoolies, Irish immigrants and nativist bigots. The NAWSA contingent and their uninvited guests from the Oriental wielded their signs and placards with every bit of their strength against antisuffrage forces. Hats went flying, placard poles cracked and splintered, and when those were exhausted, the members defended themselves with purses, shoe heels, empty beer steins, and even planks torn from police barricades.

Above the chaos, the high, shrill sounds of police whistles could be heard, distant but growing closer. Those on the fringes of the fighting began to retreat. But those in the middle of the brawl kept throttling and thrashing until they were rushed by a swarm of black-uniformed officers.

One by one, then three by three … then a dozen at a time … the brawlers were subdued, arrested, and hauled away in paddy wagons.

DIPPER AND SHORTY
had traded a number of punches before reaching the edge of the chaotic mob.

“Where’s Miz Von Furstenberg?” Dipper yelled to his panting, doubled-over partner as they leaned against the corner of a building. “We gotta find her!”

They plunged back in, dodging fists and bottles and billy clubs, as they tried to locate their employer and pull her to safety. Instead of Beatrice, they spotted Mary Kate and several of her Oriental Palace friends wielding broken parasols and borrowed clubs with surprising force. They managed to help the women retreat to the safety of a nearby alley … just as the sounds of police whistles filled the air.

Familiarity with that chilling sound sent the entire group running for cover. It wasn’t until the last paddy wagon hauled its batch of rioters away that they emerged to survey the damage. The square looked like the aftermath of the world’s worst St. Patrick’s Day celebration.

“What a mess,” Dipper said, scowling at the debris, then turning to his cousin. “You girls all right?” Mary Kate nodded and adjusted her bodice with an irritable yank.

“Looks like they got the gov,” Shorty said, testing a couple of loosened teeth. “It ain’t fair. He didn’t even get to vote.”

Dipper looked around them and spotted a wagon full of half-drunken voters being carried
to
the polling place, not away from it. “Tammany’s already back at its old tricks,” he said, punctuating his disgust with a spit. “This election is as good as lost.”

Mary Kate came to stand by her cousin and join him in glaring at the men being unloaded and herded toward the voters’ entrance.

“It ain’t right,” she said bitterly. “Th’ congressman deserves to win this ballot. He’s the finest man I ever
didn’t
know.”

Annie, Eleanor, and Pansy agreed with her. Then a glint appeared in her eye. She jerked her corset down a smidgen and headed for the voters’ line. The other girls watched at first, then one by one began to grin at each other and straighten their hats and plump their bustles.

Just before Annie joined her friends doing some politicking of their own on the voters’ line, she caught Dipper by the lapel and whispered into his reddening ear.

“I got a message for you to deliver to the girls at the Oriental.…”

THE LIGHTS OF
the city hall police station were merciless … just like the sickly, toiletlike odor of the filthy holding cells. Beatrice was herded with at least thirty other women into a large cell with two brick walls painted a noxious pea green and two walls made of stout iron bars. Her hat was gone, her Gibson-girl coif now hung askew, and her sleeve was torn partway from her jacket. There was a patch of scraped skin on her cheek, and she felt battered and sore all over. She kept seeing in her mind the way Connor fell to the steps after he’d been blindsided by a blow from one of Croker’s thugs. She was haunted by the thought that he might be still lying there, bleeding and gravely injured. She called to the jail guards, reaching through the bars to attract their attention, but they ignored her the way they ignored the twenty other women yelling at them. Then from a far corner, she heard her name being called. It was Lacey standing on one of the narrow cots that lined the walls.

They embraced as if long-lost sisters, both in tears, then found a place to sit together on one of the cots, leaning back against the painted bricks.

“It’s my fault,” she muttered through her tears to Lacey. “I insisted he run. I thought he really had a chance to win.” Every inch of her handkerchief was soaked and she had lifted her skirts and started to use her petticoat.

She couldn’t remember ever feeling this helpless and despondent. But, then, she had never suffered such a catastrophic failure before. Connor’s political future had
just been beaten and battered to a pulp … done in by a drunken mob, a political machine, and her own stubborn naiveté. She had wanted so much to help him—as he had helped her. What on earth made her think they could win against the corrupt power of Tammany Hall?

“Poor Connor … he didn’t even get to vote in his own election. If only I hadn’t pushed so hard,” she said miserably. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Lacey”

The veteran suffragist smiled ruefully. “Well, it’s not like it’s my first time in jail.” When Beatrice looked at her in shock, she added: “I once went to a ‘Women United in Labor’ rally with Frannie. We did three days.”

Beatrice tried to smile and Lacey put an arm around her. Not long afterward, the lights were turned out, and it seemed that all hope went with them. Despite Lacey’s company, Beatrice’s had never felt so alone. It was the darkest, longest night she could remember.

“What’s she blubberin’ about? She scared?” came a coarse female voice. When they looked up there was a huge, raw-boned woman staring down at them.

“Leave her alone,” Lacey said fiercely. “She’s not scared … she’s just worried about someone.”

“Connor.” Beatrice sniffed. “If I only knew for sure that he’s all right.”

To their surprise, the woman’s hardened face softened in the dimness. “This ‘Connor’ … he get pinched, too?”

“I hope so,” Beatrice said, thinking to herself that her world must be standing on its ear for her to be praying that Connor was well enough to be arrested.

“Well, honey”—the woman made something akin to a smile—“there’s ways of findin’ out things, even in here.” She turned to a woman who had posted herself in the corner closest to the next cell. “Hey, Goldie! See if there’s a …”