A March to Remember (13 page)

C
HAPTER
14

W
ho was that?

As I stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind me, I noticed movement in the park across the street. After last night's episode in the dark, I'd continued to admonish myself for conjuring suspicion out of nothing until I'd fallen into a restless sleep. And yet here I was again, suspecting every shadow, every flash of motion, to be harboring secrets. But this time, someone
was
hiding in the shadows of the park.

I loved Lafayette Square. With its statues, its towering old trees, and quaint townhouses of redbrick and painted yellow limestone encircling it, it was a peaceful place at any time of the day. Even when dozens of people strolled through or reposed in the park, the large trees offering welcome shade on the odd day when the afternoon became unseasonably warm, it was a lovely place to be. But now, it being barely dawn, was my favorite time of all. Before another living soul stirred, with the exception of a few songbirds, the park was almost magical. I'd taken my daily morning hike at almost the same time every morning and hadn't yet seen a street vendor pushing his cart, a government clerk rushing to start his day, or a nanny attempting to soothe a colicky infant with fresh air. The only person I'd ever seen was the sleepy-eyed policeman who walked past the house while patrolling his beat.

So who was that, slinking from tree to tree?

I stepped onto the brick sidewalk and strolled toward the President's House, looking straight ahead but my eyes alert to any movement. Sure enough, when I left the square and began crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I detected motion out of the corner of my eye. I dashed behind the nearest tree and peered around. A figure emerged and stepped cautiously into the open street.

It was Jasper Neely, the man with the crooked nose whom I'd met at the scene of the carriage accident. The same man who had had an altercation with Chester Smith yesterday at Coxey's camp.

What was he doing here at this hour?

My heart skipped a beat when he headed straight for the house I had left moments ago. As I watched, my eyes riveted to the house, a curtain from Senator Smith's upstairs landing window moved. Only the hint of the hand showed as the white lace curtain was pulled back slightly and dropped closed again.

Who else was awake at this hour? Not Sir Arthur, who made it a point never to rise before nine o'clock. And from my days in the Smith house, no one besides the kitchen staff and housemaid ever rose before seven and none of them had cause to be at that window at this hour. So who could it be? Chester? Senator Smith?

Anyone, I told myself.

Jasper Neely, with his countenance clouded with concern, glanced left, and then right, before approaching the house. Before his hand touched the knocker, the door opened, barely wide enough to allow him in. With the distance between us and the dim light, I couldn't see who had opened the door. Mr. Neely slipped in, disappearing quickly as the door closed behind him. I leaned against the tree, alternating my attention from the front door to the upstairs window, speculating about what Jasper Neely's early-morning visit could mean. Did he have business with the senator, with Chester, or with someone else? Either way, the day of the march had finally arrived, and it must have something to do with that. But what? Senator Smith was a well-known opponent of Coxey and his Populist ideas. They had nothing in common. I continued to stare at the house as I puzzled it out.

Had Coxey sent Neely to apologize to Chester in hopes of enlisting Senator Smith's help in gaining Coxey the Capitol steps? It was a farfetched idea, his helping Coxey, being such a great departure from the senator's normal stance on labor issues. But it would explain why Chester or the senator agreed to meet Neely in such a clandestine way. Even as I considered this possibility, I shook my head in dismissal. Neither Coxey nor Neely would ever believe a simple apology would change the senator's mind. Or were they desperate enough to try anyway? Or did someone other than Chester or the senator open the door?

As birds began waking, their calls and trills filling the park with song, I grew impatient with speculating and determined to embark on my preplanned hike. Yet before I left the shelter of the trees, the door opened again, and Jasper Neely slipped out as he had slipped in. The door closed behind him. I still couldn't tell who was behind it. Unlike before, Jasper Neely wore a smug grin on his face and skipped lightly down the steps. He strolled along the sidewalk toward H Street, whistling “The Cat Came Back,” a popular song about an unwanted cat that wouldn't go away. When he was out of sight, I hurried back toward the house and stepped inside. I dashed methodically through each and every downstairs room. They were all empty. No one was about. Then who had met with Jasper Neely? Whoever it was hadn't wanted to be seen and had promptly taken one of the staircases.

I sighed in frustration. I was to stay in the dark about this as well. First the circumstances surrounding Annie the fallen woman's death, the connection between Daniel Clayworth and the man I knew only as Billy, and now this.

Serves you right for being so nosy,
I told myself. It didn't make me feel any better.

As I headed back toward the door, a maid, a slight girl with carroty hair, came through the servant's door, up from the kitchen.

“I don't know how you do it, Miss Davish,” she said, “getting up at this hour when you don't have to.”

“It's the best part of the day,” I said. “By the way, you didn't happen to see a stranger in the house a few moments ago? He has a distinctively bent nose.”

The maid stared at me as if I'd sprouted wings. “No, miss. The senator never allows any callers before two o'clock.”

“Right. Of course.”

The maid headed down the hall to start the morning fires but glanced back twice more at me with a suspicious eye before disappearing into the drawing room. I headed back outside, watching the park for any other unusual activity, but all was peaceful; only the birds clamored about in the warm, gentle breeze and soft glow of sunrise. As I headed toward my destination for the second time that morning, I had more to ponder than what plant specimens I might collect. Whoever let Jasper Neely into the house did so without the maid knowing. But who? And why?

* * *

After catching the trolley near St. John's Church, I rode it to its terminal end, disembarking at Rock Creek Park, a federally managed twelve-mile-long park stretching from the Potomac River to the Maryland border. I happily hiked along Rock Creek, following the park trail for several miles. Although Senator Smith's home was right on Lafayette Square, it was still in the city. Here I was able to stroll through woodlands, passing orchards, pastures, fields, gardens, and working mills. More than once I startled squirrels as they foraged on the ground. As the rising sun stippled through the trees and reflected on the slowly moving water, the smell of blossoms, decaying leaves, and fresh damp soil filled my lungs. I scoured the ground, the riverbanks, and the forested hillsides rising on either side of the river for new specimens for my plant collection. Despite my triumph in finding several new species, including American golden saxifrage, mountain laurel, white wood aster, and pink azalea, I couldn't shake the implication of Jasper Neely's predawn visit. My hike was meant to soothe my thoughts, as it had always in the past, but not today. And then, while I was on my tiptoes, stretching to reach the lowest branch of a chestnut oak, another first for my collection, I heard the pounding of a horse's hooves behind me. Before I could react, a rider, wearing a black fedora, similar to the one I'd seen on the driver of the carriage that had crashed, raced his horse, foam clinging to the corners of its mouth, recklessly close to me on the trail. I lurched forward to avoid being trampled and fell to my knees. The horse and rider were a quarter of a mile away before I stood, brushed the dirt and grass from my skirt, and tucked a stray curl back under my hat. I collected the branch I'd sought, but I no longer appreciated my treasure.

Was that him? I stared at the distant rider.

I knew it wasn't the carriage driver from yesterday's fatal accident; this man was much taller, but the thought was enough to send my thoughts further into turmoil. Why was I so upset? Besides witnessing the poor prostitute's accidental demise, I had every reason to be joyful. I was to be Walter's wife! So why did I feel troubled instead?

Once I reached Peirce Mill, one of the oldest gristmills still working, I stood on the footbridge above the tailrace, letting the steady turning of the waterwheel ease my palpitating heart. When I found I could take a deep, steady breath, I pulled out my notebook and made a list of all the questions that were distressing me.

 

 

And there it was. Sir Arthur. I wasn't dismayed by Jasper Neely; who was he to me? I pitied the dead girl and regretted her death, but again, she was no acquaintance of mine. And as for Simeon Harper, Senator Smith, or Chester, they could argue and fight all they wanted as far as I was concerned. It was Sir Arthur who was worrying me. I had yet to gain a private audience with him, and the longer it went, the more anxiety I felt. I despaired at the thought that Sir Arthur would not give Walter and me his blessing, that he would see my involvement in the “fallen woman's” death as scandalous, that he would be cross when I failed to produce the property index he wanted today.

I glanced at my watch. Oh, no! It was already eight thirty, and I had much work to do before the march.

I hurried back the way I had come, nearly running to the trolley stop, the brisk exercise and the focus on what I needed to do doing more for my troubled thoughts than anything I'd tried so far. I alighted from the trolley in front of the Metropolitan Club and walked past the Corcoran Art Gallery as a man was unlocking the doors. Knowing the Treasury Building would be locked until after the march, I headed straight across the street and into the State, War and Navy Department building. Not far from the entrance, several distinguished and well-dressed men stood about in discussion. And they all wore black lasting buttons on their vests.

“And I, for one, believe that if tramps and vagabonds can be kept out of the procession and a respectable lot of men gathered together, as I think will be the case, the demonstration will have a wholesome effect,” a man wearing the collar of a clergyman said.

“I disagree. This march is the work of a man, who, if not a knave, is crazy, and who does not represent any of the principles of our party,” another man said. “I for one am glad the police and the army are on hand.”

“But they come under the guise of doing Christ's work,” the clergyman said.

“Have you seen this morning's headline? They stole a train!” another man declared, holding up the newspaper he had held rolled under his arm. In letters large enough for me to see, it read:

That's terrible,
I thought. Having been to their camp and having met Jacob Coxey, Carl Browne, and some of the marchers, I'd dismissed the talk of the destruction and danger Coxey and his army posed. But stealing a train. That did sound serious.

And then I saw him again! Jasper Neely was standing no more than fifteen feet away from me. He was speaking to someone, with their backs to me. The two men's heads were close, and I couldn't hear a word they were saying. I continued on my way, but slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man Neely seemed to be conspiring with. As several others traversed the hall, including a woman pushing a cart with squeaky wheels filled with file folders, Neely never noticed me. And then I was rewarded. With the nodding of heads, the two men parted. Neely disappeared almost immediately into an alcove behind him. The other man turned and strode confidently across the hall toward the front entrance. It was Senator Abbott.

What a coincidence,
I thought, knowing full well I didn't believe in such coincidences. Jasper Neely had prearranged to meet someone in Senator Smith's home in the early hours only to meet with Senator Smith's rival a few hours later, all on the morning of the much-anticipated march. I watched Senator Abbott push through the tall, heavy doors, before heading toward the Record and Pension Office in the War Department and the work I needed to do, but I couldn't shake the dread I felt.

What was Jasper Neely up to?

C
HAPTER
15

“T
he march is finally here! Isn't this exciting?” Sarah

Clayworth said.

After working for several hours in the War Department, I'd returned to Senator Smith's house. I'd explained to Sir Arthur about the Treasury closure and gave him the Civil War pension records I'd compiled. Luckily he was satisfied. Neither one of us mentioned the drowning incident or Simeon Harper's article about it. I was relieved. And then Walter, his sister, and brother-in-law arrived. We'd planned to all meet and go to the Capitol together. Sir Arthur, Senator and Mrs. Smith, Chester Smith, and Claude Morris opted to squeeze into their cabriolet phaeton, which bore the golden
MLS
monogram on its dash, while Walter, Sarah, Daniel, and I decided to walk, hoping to join the marchers as they passed.

“It is exciting!” I heartily agreed with Sarah.

Walking arm in arm with Walter while his sister did the same with her husband, we made our way down Pennsylvania Avenue, along with a throng of tens of thousands of others lining the streets, who had come out for the arrival of Coxey's Army. Despite being elbowed in the back and having my foot stepped on, we were lucky to squeeze through the crowd and find a spot on the curb to see the approaching procession. With the carriages of the Public Comfort Committee of Washington, D.C., for escort, the “Goddess of Peace” Mamie, Coxey's seventeen-year-old daughter, dressed in an all-white riding habit and a red, white, and blue cap, led the way on her white stallion. Behind her was Coxey himself, in a phaeton with his wife and infant son. In a crowd, the architect of this entire enterprise, this unremarkable, bespectacled man, would never had stood out. Marshal Browne, on the other hand, in his buckskins and a formal necktie, on a gray Percheron stallion flanking Coxey's carriage, was unmistakable.

Other characters I'd read about came to life before our eyes: the cowboy “Oklahoma Sam,” who showed off by riding his pony backward; Jesse Coxey, the eighteen-year-old son of Coxey, who wore blue and gray symbolizing the Civil War; and Christopher Columbus Jones, the wrinkled old leader of the Philadelphia contingency, who wore a suit of shiny broadcloth and an oversized stovepipe hat. And behind them came the faithful, dust-covered, road-weary men who had marched in dilapidated shoes and threadbare suits all the way from Ohio. They carried American flags and banners that read: P
EACE ON
EARTH, GOOD WILL TOWARD MEN, BUT DEATH TO INTEREST ON
BONDS
and C
O-OPERATION, THE CEREBELLUM OF THE
C
OMMONWEAL
and T
HE MEDULLA OBLONGATA AND ALL OTHER PARTS OF THE REINCARNATED
C
HRIST IN THE WHOLE PEOPLE
. A small band, mostly of brass drums and cymbals, accompanied the men with a rendition of “Marching Through Georgia,” an old Civil War song.

Adding to the carnival atmosphere were spectators cheering and chanting “Coxey, Coxey, Coxey!” Some overenthusiastic admirers even attempted to climb into Coxey's carriage. As the procession passed us, the streets and the sidewalks grew more and more crowded. It was soon impossible to say where the men who had marched from Ohio began and the spectators who had joined them ended. I clung to Walter tightly, afraid to be separated from him in the melee as we pushed through the crowd up the hill toward the House of Representatives entrance, hoping to reach the Capitol steps in time to see Coxey speak. And we weren't the only ones. Along with thousands of onlookers, Coxey and his men had three or four hundred policemen waiting for them.

“We're so close, we'll be able to see everything,” Sarah said gleefully. I smiled at her enthusiasm.

And then I saw him again. Jasper Neely! He was leaning on the low stone wall, talking to a woman next to him. It was Lottie Fox, the madam. Unlike most of the revelers, her face was somber. She nodded her head several times in response to whatever Mr. Neely was saying.

“Hattie, is something wrong?” Walter asked.

“No, it's just that—”

“Daniel Clayworth, I will have a word with you!”

We all turned at the shout above the din of the crowd around us to see the man I knew only as Billy pushing his way toward us. Daniel was scowling.

“Daniel?” Sarah asked, concern on her face.

“Let's go,” Daniel said, grabbing Sarah's hand and pulling her in the opposite direction.

“But, Daniel, stop! We'll miss everything!” Sarah's desperate pleas were ignored. As the two disappeared into the crowd, Walter stepped in front of the approaching stranger.

“Can I help you?” he said, blocking Billy's forward progress.

“No,” Billy said, with a resigned sigh. From Daniel's anger, I'd expected Billy to be combative or try to force his way past, but instead he sadly shook his head, turned away, and disappeared into the crowd.

“That was odd,” Walter said. “Wasn't that the same man Daniel argued with at the camp yesterday? The same one you met after the carriage accident?” I nodded. “But what does he have to do with Daniel?”

“Something upsetting or Daniel wouldn't have left so abruptly. Poor Sarah, she'll miss everything.”

“But you haven't missed a thing,” a voice said behind me. Walter and I turned to find Simeon Harper beaming from ear to ear. “And it looks like you found a prime viewing spot.”

“How did you find us?” I asked, looking out at the crowd, a teeming sea of hats stretching in all directions.

“Sir Arthur told me where you all were to meet. Speaking of . . .” I studied the mass of people Simeon Harper pointed to and found Sir Arthur, Senator Smith, Mrs. Smith, Chester Smith, and Claude Morris slowly making their way toward us.

“What happened?” I asked when the Smiths and Sir Arthur arrived.

The once oversized puffy sleeves on Mrs. Smith's dress were crushed against her shoulders, and she clutched Spencer as if he'd leap from her arms at any moment. She wasn't smiling. The senator and his son, whose pant legs were splattered with dirt, wore the same identical scowl.

“It seems you were right to walk, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said, brushing dust from his jacket. “We had to abandon the Smiths' phaeton at Sixth Street.”

“It's ludicrous!” Senator Smith said. “Arrangements should've been made; an escort should've been supplied. I'm appalled we were forced from our carriage to walk among the common throng in the street!”

“If we hadn't, we'd never had made it,” Claude Morris said.

“Yes, but the filth. Just look at my suit.” Senator Smith brushed his vest and the lapels of his coat.

“Maybe we shouldn't have come, Father,” Chester said. “What's the point anyway? No one is going to let any of these riffraff speak from the Capitol steps.”

Senator Smith shook his head in disappointment. “You were right to go into banking, son,” was all his father could say.

“Well, you see, Mr. Smith,” Claude Morris began explaining, “it is important that your father be here to do exactly that, prevent the riffraff, as you call them, from gaining the steps. His constituents will expect him to witness firsthand Coxey's arrest.”

“Arrest?” Mrs. Smith said with some alarm. “I didn't know they were going to be arrested. Is it proper for us to be here?” She gestured toward me as she said it. “By the way, dear girl, where is Congressman and Mrs. Clayworth?” She made the effort of glancing about her. “Weren't they to meet us here as well?”

“Yes, my sister and her husband were here, but that's a strange story,” Walter said. Mrs. Smith searched my face, hoping to learn the meaning of Walter's cryptic comment without outright asking.

“A man approached Congressman Clayworth who the congressman didn't want to see,” I said. Mrs. Smith nodded and smiled, as if accepting the explanation, but I could tell she wanted to know more. The senator, his aide, and his son didn't even appear to have heard a word of what we'd said.

“So, Harper,” Chester Smith was saying, a sneer on his face, “this is where they kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. Once these cranks are locked up and the rest of the rabble go home, you won't have an easy story to write.”

“I could always write about you,” the journalist said, unwrapping a piece of chewing gum. Chester's face reddened and he curled his hands into fists at his sides. His mother stepped between the two men.

“That's enough. You'd think you were schoolboys again!” Chester shot one last angry glance at Simeon, who simply popped the gum into his mouth and smiled, before storming off into the crowd. “Chester! You'll miss all the excitement,” Mildred Smith called to her son.

“You knew the senator's son in school?” Sir Arthur asked the journalist.

“We both went to Emerson before he was kicked out for cheating.”

“Explains quite a bit,” Sir Arthur said. Simeon nodded and opened his mouth to reply.

“Attention, Commonweal! Halt!” Marshal Browne's voice boomed above the din of the crowd, cutting off Simeon Harper's reply.

The procession had reached its destination and stopped before the waiting line of police. The journalist motioned for us to follow, and we hurriedly got as close as possible to Coxey's phaeton. After escorting Mamie Coxey, the “Goddess of Peace,” to the safety and shade under a maple at the curb, Browne returned to the phaeton.

“Are you ready?” he said to Coxey.

Coxey nodded, bent to kiss his wife, which brought cheers from the crowd, and then jumped to the ground. To my relief, he wore white agate buttons on his vest. With Browne carrying a banner and Coxey carrying his speech, the two men headed for the steps.