New York - The Novel

the honor.”
    “Well, I never saw a woman shop the way she does, I’ll say that for her. I watched her at it once. She’s like a madwoman when she gets to New York—which is quite often, as you know. No wonder the Congress complain about her.”
    “Mrs. Lincoln had to refurnish the White House,” Hetty said defensively.
    “I’ll say.”
    “Well,” said Hetty, with dignity, “I believe people should be free, too. I believe every person has a God-given freedom no matter what their race or color. And I think Mr. Lincoln’s right.”
    “Oh, he may be right, dear. I expect he is. I’ve got nothing against the darkies. They’re no better or worse than you or me, that’s for sure. But there’s an awful lot of people getting killed for it.”
    They had come to Union Square now, and were about to turn right onto Fourteenth when the coachman slowed up, and tapped on the window with his whip. Along the street, at the foot of Irving Place, a mob of a hundred or more was blocking the entrance.
    “Go round,” Madame Restell ordered.
    They went cautiously round Union Square and tried up Fourth Avenue. There seemed to be threatening groups on every street. As they came level with the top of Gramercy Park, the crowds grew thicker, and you could see across to the huge mob laying siege to the armory. At that precise moment, a hail of paving stones hit the building, and someone hurled a barrel of burning pitch through one of the windows. There was a huge roar from the crowd.
    “This is no good,” said Madame Restell decisively. “Go over to Fifth,” she called to the coachman.
    “I must get out,” cried Hetty. “This is my home.”
    “Don’t be silly, dear,” said Madame Restell. “You won’t be able to get to it.”
    Hetty wanted to jump out, but she couldn’t deny the truth of what Madame Restell said.
    They turned up Fifth. You could see that some of the houses had beenlooted, but the rioters had evidently turned their attention elsewhere for the moment.
    “You’d better come to my house,” said Madame Restell. “I’ve got a serving boy who can worm his way through any crowd. Regular little Five Points rat. He’ll run down to your place and tell ’em where you are.”
    It might be good sense, but Hetty didn’t like it. The avenue ahead was clear, and the coachman whipped up the horses. They flew past Madison Square. The heat of the day and the dust from the horses’ hoofs made the brownstone facades of the houses unclear. She felt queasy, as if she were being pulled against her will up some strange, hot river of dust. They were in the Thirties already. On her right she saw an empty lot containing a nursery garden. A brick church suddenly towered, like an affront, on her left.
    And then she saw the great, fortress-like mass of the reservoir. The place where Frank had proposed. Solid, in all this heat and dust. Unshakable as a pyramid in the desert. The foundation of her marriage. She was letting herself be carried past it. I must be mad, she thought.
    They’d passed Forty-second Street.
    “Stop!” She pulled open the window and shouted to the coachman. “Stop at once!”
    The carriage slowed.
    “What are you doing?” cried Madame Restell. “Go on,” she fairly bellowed at the coachman. But too late. Hetty had already opened the carriage door and, before the coach had even halted, tumbled out into the dusty street. “You stupid bitch!” Madame Restell called down to her as Hetty, on her knees, picked herself up from the dust at Forty-third. “Get back in.”
    But Hetty didn’t care.
    “Thanks for the ride,” she called, and turned to walk down Fifth. She might have a bruise or two, but she felt better. At least she was doing something.
    As the carriage pulled away up Fifth, she did pause for a moment, though, to straighten her clothes. The heat and humidity were oppressive. She glanced around. On the corner opposite was a large building. And when she saw it, she even smiled.
    If the reservoir represented the massive solidity of the city’s engineering, the orphanage for black children opposite her was a welcome reminder, even on this day of chaos, that the city did have a moral compasstoo. For it was the wealthy people of the city, people like herself, who had paid for the orphanage, and it wasn’t just for show. Two hundred and thirty-seven black children, from infants up, were housed, clothed, fed—and, yes, educated—in that building on Fifth Avenue. Two hundred and