New York - The Novel

household, and Tom had decided not to bother with his father.
    Since the news of the riot at the Draft Office reached them, however, his mother had become agitated. She stood at the big window, staring out at the square and murmuring: “Where can he be?”
    “I’ll go down and find him,” Tom now offered, but she begged him not to. “It’s bad enough having your father out there,” she said. And feeling that he should probably stay to protect her, he didn’t press it.
    So he went up to the top of the house. From the attic window, he could see the flames rising from the Draft Office, twenty-five blocks to the north. He watched them for some time before coming down.
    Reaching the hall, he did not see any sign of his mother. He called her name. No answer. The parlormaid came out.
    “Mrs. Master’s gone,” she told him. It seemed his mother had seen a cab draw up at the house next door, run out and taken it. “She said you were to stay and mind the house,” the parlormaid reported.
    Tom sighed. It was obvious where she’d gone. So he might as well stay put, as she asked.

    When Frank Master arrived at Gramercy Park, it was about noon. Young Tom didn’t give him a very friendly reception. Having explained that his mother had left the house only minutes before, he asked his father where he’d been, and when Frank said, “Away,” Tom gave him furious looks. It seemed to Frank that there was little point in following Hetty down to the South Street counting house, which was obviously where she’d gone, because he’d probably just miss her as she came back. The best thing was to wait for her at home. Meanwhile, if his son was going to give him these angry looks, he’d rather get him out of the house.
    “Tom, there’s a big mob on its way down to the armory on Second. You’d better watch out for them. Don’t get near, but see what they’re up to, and let me know.” He looked around. “I’m going to close all the shutters.”

    The South Street waterfront was quiet. Hetty wasn’t sure how long she’d been waiting at the counting house, but at least she knew now from the old clerk that Frank hadn’t disappeared. That was something. And the clerk had been clear that Frank had said he’d be back. She resolved to wait for him, therefore. There was only a hard wooden bench to sit on. Like most busy merchants, Frank didn’t encourage visitors to stay too long. She didn’t care. So long as she saw him. But an hour passed, and there was no sign of him.
    From time to time, people came in and were quickly dealt with by the old clerk. Apart from that, there was only the sound of his steel-nibbed pen, scratching on ledgers. She considered going back, but she couldn’tbring herself to the thought that she might miss him on the way. It was almost two o’clock when a young clerk from one of the other counting houses stuck his head round the door.
    “It’s getting rough out there. We’re shutting up shop,” he told the clerk.
    “What’s happening?” she asked.
    “Well, ma’am, I’m afraid there’s been trouble on the West Side now. They’ve been chasing niggers up there. I don’t know if they’ve hanged any yet, but I reckon they’re looking to.”
    “Why in the world would they harm black men because of the draft?” she cried.
    “Because if Lincoln has his way, the city’ll be full of niggers taking the Irishmen’s jobs. Least, that’s what they think,” he replied. “That, and the fact they don’t like ’em,” he added by way of further explanation.
    Hetty was so horrified she could barely speak. “What else?” she asked the young clerk.
    “They’ve been coming down Fifth Avenue, destroying houses. They were at the mayor’s too. But he ain’t there now. He’s called his people to the St. Nicholas Hotel. They’re meeting there to figure out what to do. That’s all I know.”
    “I am Mrs. Master,” Hetty told him. “You know my husband, I’m sure?”
    “Yes, ma’am. Fine gentleman.” “You haven’t seen him, have you?”
    “No, ma’am. But quite a few merchants and Wall Street men were going over to the St. Nicholas to find out what the mayor intends to do. I should think he might be there.”
    “If my husband should come by,” she told the old clerk, “tell him that’s where I’ve gone.”

    Sean O’Donnell didn’t leave the saloon until two o’clock. Though he opened for his usual customers, he kept the shutters closed and barred. Several of the regular