Sex Wars (7 page)

The air in the city was never pure, but compared to the stinking filth he had been breathing, it felt clean as a country brook. He drew deep breaths into his lungs, appreciating the breeze off the East River as he marched from the Bowery. It was too late for Edward. He had already succumbed. But there were thousands of Edwards, impressionable and innocent young boys crowding into the city as Edward and he himself had in order to better themselves—and better was not what happened. It took courage and a deep sense of what was right to stand against the ubiquitous sporting culture the city offered to young men—a tribal thing, appealing to their lowest passions but making it feel as if such activities were the only way for a man to become a man. He had seen the clerks passing around the sporting papers that featured reports on the “best” whorehouses and gambling hells. He longed to be a sword in the hands of the living God to
smite the corrupters. For a moment as he walked south, he felt weak and almost silly, swearing battle with everything around him. Then his resolve stiffened and he thrust back his shoulders. Edward was wrong about the way to be a man. He would go his own way, the right way, even if he lost the only friend he’d made in this wild and dangerous city.

V
ICTORIA MET HER HUSBAND
James’s train. It was the Vanderbilt line, New York Central, which she viewed as a good omen. Both her children arrived with him, Byron, her toothless idiot son, at fourteen unable even to speak, her daughter Zulu Maud, just turned seven. “I swear, you’ve grown in the three weeks since I saw you!”

Zulu flushed with pride. Her braids hung halfway down her back. Neither of her children had inherited her looks, but she loved them. Byron was sweet, more like a pet than a son. Zulu was fiercely loyal to her mother and would do anything to please. Victoria embraced them; then Tennie went off in a cab with them while James and Victoria collected the luggage. “Did matters go well?” James asked, taking her arm. He carried a satchel while a porter brought along his trunks.

“We’ve made a slight connection. What happens next depends on our interview with him tomorrow.” She held up her free hand with crossed fingers.

“It must go well.” James frowned. “Did you remember everything we studied and agreed upon?”

They ambled along slowly, for Colonel Blood had received half a dozen war wounds during the campaigns of the Civil War, one of them in his thigh. Preferring his skill to the dangerous mercies of the camp doctors, he had dug out the bullet with his own knife. He would always have a slight limp, but he carried himself with military bearing. She had met a number of men who styled themselves Colonel; Vanderbilt himself liked to be called Commodore. But James really had been a colonel, and a heroic
one. He was an attractive man, with longish dark hair, regular features, a dark beard that left his finely modeled chin bare. He was tall and lean, dashing in spite of his limp.

Before the war, he had been a conventional man in a conventional marriage with a conventionally respectable job. He was auditor of the city of St. Louis and held the presidency of a local railroad. He had married well and lived a prosperous bourgeois life with his passive, placid wife and two daughters. But for the war, he might have continued so.

The war had shattered his sense of human possibilities. A quiet abolitionist, he had enlisted early and fought hard. He had seen men slaughtered around him, their bodies soaking the mud red, their limbs smashed by cannonballs, their skulls broken like eggs. When he returned a hero, he could not fit back into his old life. He was haunted by the dead. He saw ghosts, who sometimes tormented him and sometimes seemed fiercely eager to communicate. He could no longer make love to his wife. He felt estranged from her and everyone he had known. When he fell in love with Victoria, he was ready to discard all he had ever cherished or worked at or owned—and he did. He ran off with her. Later, being a man of probity, he returned, paid off his debts, divorced his wife and gave her his earthly goods. There was a core of cold intellect in him that Victoria both respected and sometimes regretted, for it kept him from the sensual abandon she knew herself capable of. Still, they were well mated. He was not possessive, for the ideas he held of free love and free union were far more important to him than possession of her.

“And how is Tennessee?”

“Well and eager. She has plans for the Commodore.”

Colonel Blood had agreed to take Tennessee in when she had fled the Claflin clan. Tennessee had been supporting the family for years and—sick of that life—longed for something better, so James had willingly taken her under his protection. He was not interested in Tennie the way men usually were. He was too much in love with Victoria, and he liked his women slenderer and brighter, but he understood Victoria would not rest until she had freed the sister she loved.

“Did you bring me more books?” She squeezed his arm gently. His arm could pain him where he had been wounded in yet another battle. He had begun systematically educating her. In school, she had been an excellent student, but Roxanne and Buck were always pulling her out to be hired as a domestic servant, to care for the younger children, to front Buck’s traveling circus of patent medicines and wonder cures. She was sure
her clan would show up on her doorstep as soon as Tennie and she had established themselves. Victoria took as given that she and Tennessee would always have to support the Claflin family. They had grown up in a state of siege with whatever neighbors they had at the time, always the respectable element gossiping about them, trying to get rid of them. So they stuck together, family first. She had grown up with neighbors pointing at her, whispering about her family, insulting her. They were pariahs. “You were able to raise some money?”

“Sold off some stocks I still had. Where are you bivouacked?”

“In a cheap boardinghouse. It won’t do. We need a decent address.”

He slapped his waistcoat. “We can get set up quickly. I’ll work on it tomorrow. Find a flat or a brownstone.”

“Tennie and I have made friends with the keeper of a high-toned brothel, Annie Wood. She knows how to furnish a place elegantly but cheaply. I’m going to visit her tomorrow late morning when she rises. We sometimes take coffee together in her conservatory.”

“I look forward to meeting her.”

“She’s a Southerner but don’t get your back up. She has a lot of colored girls working for her, and she treats them better than most madams treat their white whores. She takes care of her girls, and she pays off the police and the politicians handsomely—two hundred dollars monthly for the police alone—and gives them a free ride once a week, so there’s no danger of any of the girls ending up in the Tombs.”

“The tombs? You mean, dead?”

“That’s what they call the jailhouse here. A big ugly building that looks vaguely Egyptian. May we never see the inside of it!”

“Why should we?”

“You know my family.”

He grunted assent, hailing a horse cab and tipping the porter. “Where should I look for a place?”

“I don’t want to be too far from Vanderbilt.” She lowered her voice so the cabbie would not hear. “I took a lover—a newspaperman from the
Sun,
Charlie St. James. Newspapermen tend to know the politics of a place and the useful gossip. I don’t want to continue the liaison—I want to turn him into a friend. So when you meet him, be uxorious, if it wouldn’t offend you.”

“Certainly. Maybe I can befriend him.” He cleared his throat to announce a change of subject. “What have you been reading?”

“The Orations of Demosthenes.”

“Did you read the Suetonius?”

“On the train.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a nasty lot they were, the Roman emperors. I shouldn’t like to have caught the eye of Nero or Caligula. Anyone with that kind of power is too dangerous.”

“Is Vanderbilt dangerous?”

She thought for a moment. “To anyone who crosses him.” She remembered his famous letter to the men who forced him out of one of his steamship companies during the gold rush:
Gentlemen, you have undertaken to cheat me. I won’t sue you, for the law is too slow. I will ruin you. Yours truly, Cornelius Vanderbilt.
“He needs to win. But he’s not a brooder.”

“Is he interested in you?”

“Tennie is what he wants. I couldn’t do it, frankly. I can’t fake it.”

“And Tennessee can?”

“Sure. She faked spiritual séances for years, and before that, the gift of tongues. She’s a good actress—”

“I bet you were a better one.”

“My gift was rapid memorization. Tennie would have been better at acting. She has the gift of talking herself into being interested in a man if he looks like a good idea. She’s an easier person than I am. She has fewer spines.”

“And less of a spine.”

“Don’t underestimate her, James. She’s stronger than you think. She’s been through hell and come out unblemished.” Victoria laughed. “After all, she’s lost her virginity something like fifty times.”

I
N THE MORNING,
James went out to look for suitable lodging. She told him to try Great Jones Street. She had no particular reason except that the name popped into her head, and she took it for a spirit communication. The name had a magnificent ring. In the meantime, she and Tennie prepared some products Annie might find useful.

Victoria loved to take coffee in the conservatory with Annie. She was even growing accustomed to chicory. Today the bread was made with dates. Strawberry and quince jams, marmalade and honey in silver pots offered themselves on the silver tray. Something sweetly scented was blooming.

Tennie spread out the products they had brought. “Vaginal sponges presoaked in vinegar. They’re pretty good at preventing conception.”

Annie was wearing one of her many morning robes de chambre, this
one in pale lavender gusseted and trimmed with row upon row of lace. Someday soon Victoria would have such fine costumes instead of plain white cotton nightdresses. Annie was asking, “Can they be reused?”

“Of course. You wash them after every time. The reason to presoak is that everything’s ready to go.” Tennie clapped her hands.

Victoria took up a red bottle. “This is a preparation of cloves. It’s a bit numbing—fine for reduction of pain in the female parts. So often there’s abrasion and discomfort from so much activity. The cloves numb, but if the man penetrates, then there’s a feeling of warmth.” She would not put anything over on Annie, since she wanted her as a friend and wanted her trust. She described the items, careful not to claim too much.

“He thinks she’s hot for him, but she actually feels less.” Annie smiled, motioning for more coffee.

“In short, yes.”

“Sounds good to me. What’s that?” Annie poked an elegant finger at a bottle of colorless fluid.

“One of three colognes we produce. This is a mixture of rose and verbena.” Victoria held the bottle under Annie’s nose. “A lot cheaper than French perfume. We have one that’s muskier.”

“I’ll try a few bottles of each. Let you know how they go over with my girls.”

One of the colored girls in a French maid’s uniform appeared. “Miss Mansfield is here to see you, Madame.”

“Show her in, Marguerite.” She turned back to the sisters. “I give all my colored girls French names. Josie Mansfield is Jim Fisk’s mistress. He set her up in grand style, but she still visits me. She gives me tips on the stock market.”

Victoria frowned at the name. Fisk. He and another man, Gould, controlled the Erie Railroad. A manipulator of the market. A big spender. Vanderbilt’s enemy.

The maid showed Josie in. Victoria hung back, not wishing to embarrass the woman by recognizing her unless Josie was willing to admit they had met. Josephine Mansfield was a full-figured woman with hair as dark as Victoria’s and fine ivory skin. She was dressed in the latest fashion, a striped silk skirt and a vivid green weskit over a lacy underblouse, a mantilla over all. Victoria thought her attire a little much for noon, but obviously Josie liked to flaunt her prosperity as well as her figure. She had large melting eyes and a pouty mouth.

“Annie, that man is driving me crazy—” Josie stopped abruptly as she noticed Tennie and Victoria.

Annie introduced them. “The sisters are medical adepts. They were just showing me some items that could be useful to my girls. Want to try the cologne?”

“He buys me French cologne by the vat. Thanks anyhow.”

Then she looked hard at Victoria. “Victoria Woodhull! Remember me?”

“Of course! I could never forget
you.”
Victoria turned to Annie and Tennessee. “We met in San Francisco.” Josie was a nitwit but bighearted and without malice.

“We was both actresses. You was in
New York by Gaslight
and I was playing in
The Robber’s Revenge.
Both of us up there in corseting that pushed our tits up to our chins with dresses cut down to here.”

“And those parties with idiots pawing us afterward.”

“You could memorize a part in a flash. All us girls envied you, how you could read it once and then go pour it out word perfect.”

“I wasn’t much of an actress. You were a lot better.”

Josie giggled. “It does me in good stead with old Jim, believe me.”

“You can put up with a lot if a man is generous,” Tennie said.

Josie winked at her. “You get the picture.”

“We’ve all been there.” Tennie was ingratiating herself with Josie. Actually neither Tennie nor Victoria had ever been kept. Rather both of them had kept their families. Victoria had supported her first husband, the drunken doctor Canning Woodhull, for most of their disastrous marriage.

“He’s good to me. But ladies, when he gets on top, it’s like being fucked by a hippopotamus. He may look the dandy with his fancy clothes on and his diamonds flashing, but once he strips down, you want to avert your eyes—and I don’t mean from modesty.”

“A beauty like you could do better, then,” Victoria offered.

“Not likely. He spends money like water. I can’t complain of his generosity. He buys me jewels and clothes and furs. I have a fine house, but he lives in it with me, and that’s a little more of him than I like.”

“He isn’t married? You should marry him,” Tennie said.

“He has a wife—Lucy—who lives in Boston. He never says a bad word about the lady, but they don’t share a bed and don’t even share a roof. He keeps her in high style and they both seem to like that arrangement just fine.”

“Does he talk to you about the market?” Victoria asked.

“Constantly. Ask Annie if I haven’t helped her put away a pot of money for a rainy day Sometimes he’s wrong, but not often. Believe me, not often.”

Annie nodded. “But Josie doesn’t invest.”

“I like to spend too much. I like to live well, ladies, that’s my aim in life. I hide a little away, cash here and there where I can lay hands on it if I need it, but I’m not into the care and husbandry of money like Annie.” Josie laughed. “It’s just not my thing. I don’t breed horses or dogs or money. I just like to have it around.”

Maybe Josie could prove useful to her, Victoria thought. “What I need is to know where I can furnish a house cheaply but with some refinement.” Victoria turned to Annie. “I was hoping you could help me.”

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON,
James had leased a brownstone on Great Jones Street, just as she had envisioned. It was vacant and theirs at once. Tennie and Victoria were so eager to get out of the boardinghouse that they moved into the house that evening, sleeping on the floor with their trunks the only furniture and their coats for beds. James sent a telegram to his brother in New Jersey telling him where he was, and they put their names under the doorbell outside.