Glimmers of Change (67 page)

Matthew walked back into the hotel, stopping by the front desk before he went into the restaurant. He was smiling when he turned away, an envelope in his hands. When he was seated at a table in the midst of the chaos, he opened the letter.

Dear Matthew,

I love reading your letters about life in New Orleans. I dream of going there one day. I will also admit I am quite worried about you. From everything you tell me, the same thing that happened in Memphis could very well happen in New Orleans. Please be careful! If I wasn’t so worried, I could almost laugh when I write that. I already know you are always in the middle of the trouble. My prayers are with you.

Medical school continues to absorb all my time, but I’m happy to say I love it! On a more somber note, cholera is spreading through the country. New York missed the brunt of it, but it didn’t stop it from spreading. Cases have been reported in Baltimore, Cincinnati, Savannah, Chicago, Galveston, Little Rock, and Louisville. The cases that concern me the most, though, are the ones that have been reported in New Orleans. Please be so very careful. New Orleans is not following the protocol that New York City is. The first cases have just been reported. I pray you will be out of there soon.

I hope you are coming back to Philadelphia when you leave. It’s hot here, but not as dreadfully hot as you describe New Orleans to be. And so far we have been spared from cholera. We’ll be ready with apple pie and fried chicken when you return. My Yankee housemates used to turn their noses up at our southern fried chicken. Now they love it as much as we do!

All the girls send their love, as do I.

Sincerely,

Janie

Matthew had been writing Janie regularly since he had left Philadelphia. She would not have received the latest letters he had sent. He knew that when she had received them they would only concern her more, but he so appreciated having someone he could write the truth to. The one night he had spent with her after the Fourth of July parade had opened his eyes to what an amazing woman she was. After years of only being able to think of Carrie, Janie’s warm vibrancy had captured his heart. He was eager to return to Philadelphia to spend more time with her, but he knew that he couldn’t leave until after he had covered the convention.

Matthew smiled and gently folded the letter before he shoved it into his pocket. He would add it to the others he had received. If everything went as planned, he would be on the train to Philadelphia by the end of the week.

A harsh, hushed voice grabbed his attention. “It’s quite true that the New Orleans police have a special interest in what happens tomorrow.”

Matthew snapped to attention, trying to maintain a relaxed posture so he wouldn’t alert the speakers that they were being listened to. He shifted slightly until he could see who was speaking. The two men huddled at the table next to him were obviously wealthy. Both of their faces were red with anger.

“If that convention is successful,” the older of the men continued, “it’s likely they will establish qualifications for public office that would prevent our Confederate veterans from serving as a police officer. I would say the prospect of a losing a job that pays eighty dollars a month, in a city with such high employment, should give our police added incentive to make sure the convention does not convene.” His voice dripped with satisfaction.

“But how will Chief Adams let them know if there is a disturbance? I heard Mayor Monroe was making them stay in the station houses,” the other man asked.

“Oh, there will be trouble,” the older man predicted confidently. “We’re making sure there are enough whites there to start up a little trouble. Even if the niggers want this to be peaceful, they’re not going to get their way.”

Matthew clenched his fists under the table as he forced himself to breathe evenly so that he wouldn’t miss anything that was said.

“Chief Adams is using the fire-police telegraph system to get word out if there is any trouble.”

Matthew listened intently. Philadelphia, New York, and Boston had similar systems to alert fire houses of a blaze. They were actually quite ingenious. The New Orleans alarm system consisted of sixty-five signal stations — cast iron, cottage-shaped boxes attached to the sides of houses, telegraph poles, or gas lamps. They were connected to the central office in the First District police station behind City Hall by a circuit of telegraph lines stretched overhead between tall poles. Normally, the boxes were locked, but every watchman and policeman had a key. If they spotted smoke, they would run to the nearest box, unlock it and turn a crank inside to sound the alarm.

Turning the crank sent a signal to the central station indicating the district and box number from which the signal had come. The telegraph operator at the central station would then use a keyboard to activate any, or all, of the thirteen large bells located strategically throughout the city. Matthew knew most of them were on the steeples of prominent churches.

New Orleans was divided into nine fire districts. If the originating box was, for instance, number five in district three, the alarm bells would strike three times. Using another control, the central operator could send a second command to all of the signal boxes in the appropriate district. This command would cause a small bell inside each box to tap out the location of the signal box from which the initial alarm was sounded. Firemen were directed to the appropriate district by large alarm bells. Once they got there, they would be directed to the location of the fire by listening to the small bell inside of the signal boxes.

“I thought the alarm system was just for the fire departments,” the man protested.

The older man smiled smugly. “It was obvious Chief Adams needed a way to summon his forces quickly should trouble arise. They have enabled the system to alert the police by using twelve strikes of the alarm bells. It won’t be confused with a real fire alarm, but it will make sure our boys are there to take care of things.”

Matthew tensed, hearing more in the man’s voice than he was saying.

The other man must have thought so, too. “Do you know more than you are telling me?”

The older man shrugged. “I would just make sure you avoid that area tomorrow. I’m sending my wife and children out of the city tonight.”

“Why?” The younger man was obviously alarmed. “This isn’t even the real convention. They’re just meeting to find out how many more delegates they need to be able to even
have
the convention.”

“And what do you know about that?” the older man asked sharply, his eyes narrowing with anger. “Are you one of the radical nigger lovers?” His voice dripped with suspicion.

“No, of course not!” the other man insisted. “I’m all for doing whatever it takes to keep the niggers from having the vote, but I also realize that if things get out of hand, the city could go under martial law. Is that what you want?”

“That won’t happen,” the older man scoffed. “President Johnson is on our side. He knows we have to take care of things our own way down here. Just because we can’t force all the niggers back to the plantations, it doesn’t mean we can’t still control things.”

The other man sounded doubtful. “What about the Civil Rights Act? What about the Fourteenth Amendment? I hate what is happening in our state as much as you do, but what if we lose control and they put us back under military law? What if things go terribly wrong and it opens the door for the Radical Republicans to gain control of the Congress? President Johnson will lose his ability to control things.”

“That won’t happen,” the older man insisted again. He suddenly seemed to notice Matthew leaning slightly in their direction so that he wouldn’t miss anything of what they were saying. His lips snapped shut as he scowled at Matthew.

Matthew reached down to pick up the napkin he had let slip from his lap, gave them a pleasant smile, and then went back to drinking the iced tea his server had placed in front of him. He kept his face neutral, but his thoughts were spinning.

The tension had been growing for years. Perhaps it was simply not possible to defuse the racial bomb that was going to go off in New Orleans the next day.

Matthew was already sweating profusely as he took up a position next to a window on the second floor of the Mechanics Building. The imposing brick building was four stories high, but was actually only three stories because the middle hall was two stories tall. The cavernous hall was flanked on either side by tall windows that reached almost to the ceiling. Two large doors that opened outward onto the landing provided an entrance at one end. At the opposite end was a raised platform. A low rail in front of it divided the room into two unequal parts. Business was conducted inside the rail, while spectators stood or sat in the larger area outside.

Matthew glanced out at the growing crowd of black people and then turned back to what was going on inside the hall. The area behind the rail was populated with delegates sitting in chairs, waiting for the convention to start. There were three tables on the platform arranged into a horseshoe shape. Judge Howell, president of the convention, sat behind the table in the center. The table to the right had his secretary and assistants. The third table was populated with journalists, both local and visiting.

The larger area was slowly filling up with more men. Most were black, but there were white supporters scattered among them.

Matthew had opted to stand at the window so he could see what was going on outside. He wanted to be able to see what was going on because he was convinced the trouble would start on the streets. His concern grew as the number of black people milling around on Dryades Street in front of the building swelled. The atmosphere was festive, but he could feel the danger in the air as hundreds of black men, women, and children, dressed in their Sunday best sang and chanted about their right to vote.

Looking past the crowd of black supporters, he could see a group of white men gathered less than half a block away. He thought about the prediction of the man he had eavesdropped on the previous day. He could tell by the expressions on the men’s faces that they were looking for trouble.

Howell had been forced to delay the start of the meeting by an hour because there were not enough delegates to form a quorum. Matthew had not paid attention to how they planned on fixing that because his attention had been focused on what was happening outside. He just knew Howell had left the room, promising to return when more delegates arrived. Matthew assumed he was downstairs in the governor’s office.

His attention was pulled outside again when he saw another group of black men, one of them defiantly waving an American flag, moving down Canal Street. Their faces were set with determination and courage, and their military bearing said they were Union veterans. Matthew stiffened when he heard three young white men jeer at the flag bearer, their voices rising above the noise. The flag bearer’s response was to wave the flag defiantly. Two of the men leaped down from the sidewalk and tried to seize the colors, but they were beaten back, crawling back on their hands and knees as the group pushed on.

Suddenly Matthew heard the pop of gunfire, but the group didn’t falter. The drummers leading the procession beat the long roll just as they had during the war to rally the troops on the field of battle. “Fall in boys!” they cried. “Rally, boys!” The last of the marchers cleared the line of white men, their faces triumphant as they took their place in front of the hall.

Matthew continued to watch the white men, his stomach sinking when he saw their rage stiffen into cold purpose.

The supporters greeted the procession with exuberant excitement. The black veterans gave three cheers, and the crowd cheered in return. The flag bearer leaped to the top of the steps of the institute and waved the flag defiantly at the whites on Canal. The cheers grew louder.

As Matthew continued to watch, he realized some of the men in the crowd were acting drunk. He had seen bottles and canteens being passed around freely. He bit back a groan, knowing things could easily get out of hand. Suddenly a black man ran down the steps of the Institute into the crowd. Matthew couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was obvious by the man’s gestures that he was trying to get the crowd to be quiet and go away. Their response was to cheer louder. Another man came down from the stairs and tried to convince them to leave. He got the same response.

“This thing is going to explode.”

Matthew glanced at a reporter from the
Boston Globe
. He didn’t bother to deny it. The atmosphere was so tense and inflammatory that it would take hardly anything to provoke an explosion.