Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 2. Chapter 2: House of Refuge

Chapter 2: House of Refuge

The hallway was mostly quiet, except for her authoritative gait and the rattling chatelaine on her belt.

As she periodically peeked into classroom windows, she could feel Assistant Superintendent Dodd breathing down her neck.

How to describe the snively nature of him…? In her mind he was a mousy man, but like the field or church variety, resourceful in the extreme.

They continued on their inspection.

"Sir, I will repeat this yet again, but I believe the inmates are being asked to work too much."

He scoffed. "They received the state-mandated three hours of instruction a day. We don’t want to coddle the boys, do we?!"

She had a pithy reply at the ready. "They may be in school for three hours a day, six days a week, but they are also asked to work seven hours a day – seven days a week. That's more than a common day-laborer, and these, dear Assistant Superintendent, are children."

"I follow the rules, miss."

They were distracted by a small child. He appeared at the end of the corridor, temporally blocking the light from the window behind him. The lad stood waiting, holding something down by his side.

Dodd pulled out his watch and raised a hand to the youngster. He counted down the seconds, then signaled.

The boy vigorously shook his handbell. Moments later, boys and youth of varying ages poured from the classrooms. They were matched in drab but spotless uniforms, and uniformly short-cropped hair. They were also unanimous in having ashen faces and bedraggled steps.

The woman knew a similar scene was playing itself out on the other side of the facilities, in the girls' section.

Assistant Superintendent Dodd barked: "Back to your work-places, boys! Enough book-learning for one day. The afternoon's a-wastin'."

He tipped his imaginary hat at the young woman and departed down the passageway with his inmates.

She was left a moment to stew about the system, and how these boys were caught in it like rotating gears. It was then she became aware that two of the older lads were standing next to her. They appeared nervous and expectant.

"Oh, Felix – and Hampden – "

"Miss, please."

Very discreetly, Felix stuck a note towards her. She took it, casually, and the boys smiled. Hampden – the larger, but younger of the two – playfully slapped the chest of his cohort before they ran down the hall, away from her and to their duties.

Now alone, she dared to open it.

Deer Miss Waverly,

You have to help us, see our parents dont want no-thing to do with us any moor, and —

She glanced around, fearing for the young men's safety if this note became intercepted by the warders.

Elizabeth Waverly carefully closed the missive again and tucked it up her sleeve. She scoffed silently to herself, 'House of Refuge – fiddlesticks!'

˚˚˚˚˚

Monk slurped down an oyster.

The day's Globe-Democrat was in his other hand, expertly folded, and while he savored the taste in his mouth, he scanned the headlines. Most of them concerned the upcoming presidential election. The Republican Party was officially a mess. The sitting president, Rutherford B. Hayes, had not been invited to be on the re-election ticket due to the fact that he actually lost in 1876, but GOPs in Congress appointed him anyway. What followed has been four years of obstructionism by Democrats in the legislatures. However, as good as the chances are the Republicans will win the presidency again this year with Garfield heading the ticket, Hayes' weakness led to the end of United States control of the South. Jim Crow antics to keep black men from the polls are growing alarming, and today's newspaper included two articles about it. One relayed the arrest of four North Carolina judges who refused to find poll taxes illegal, and then another case in Texas where poll officials were thrown in jail for colluding to keep the black turn-out low by physical intimidation. It made Monk sick at heart to think that times were changing for the worse, and what could be considered worse than depriving a man of his Constitutional right to vote? He felt he could only lament these subversions of the law, and still be furious at the lack of political backbone shown by the GOPs to restore things to normal. Just because the Republicans were confident in election victories nationally, they did not stand up for suppressed votes in the South, all of which would go their way anyway.

'The U.S. fought a war – lost hundreds of thousands of our boys – to free our enslaved brethren. It'd be a disgrace to their sacrifices if the GOPs decide black votes don’t matter. Anyway, the arrest of those judges and poll workers is a good sign. Civil Rights are important; blood was spilled for them. Why do you think it's called the 'Civil War' anyway….'[1]

He ate another oyster, and re-folded his newspaper to expose more columns. As he skimmed the local news, he thought back to his meeting with Jacob Jordan that morning.

Everybody knew Barr's, but few got a behind the scenes tour of the busy beehive of commerce.

He set down his paper and pulled out his notebook to go over his bullet points. His hand idly stroked his beard while he read.

~ Currently occupy entire block between Saint Charles and Vine; Third to Fourth Streets. They have four stories of showrooms on Third; five on Fourth Street. They rent several surrounding properties for offices, workrooms and storage facilities.

~ By year's end they expect to employ 600 people, and that would put them on par with some of the city's largest payrolls, like those of the Lemp and Anheuser-Busch breweries.

~ Layout of the store. In '67 they expanded all the way to Fourth Street. They built a ladies' resort—with direct entry from carriages—and where she may peruse the fine array of colorful notions to her heart's content: ribbons, gloves, embroideries, laces, &Cetera. Then up via the grand staircase to the Ladies Gallery, a women-only restaurant on the First Floor balcony overlooking the bustle of 'Where female feet love to tread.' Here a string quartet entertains, and telephones are available to clients. After a suitable repast with her fellow lady associates, they can take the steam-powered elevators up to the Third Floor, where various elegant and private salons await the modeling of the latest Paris fashions.

~ All is lit by eclectic lights, at great expense to the store, and they maintain their own private dynamo in the cellar to generate the power. The lighting is a feature, the store is proud to point out to clients, that shan't be found at Scruggs, Nugent's, Crawford's, or even Samuel Davis & Co.—the West's oldest retailer, having been founded in this city in 1829.

Naturally, the new store will have a generator twice the capacity, which will also be on-site, in the cellar.

~ Only Wannamaker's in Philly is currently outfitted in a larger facility, but in a couple of weeks, after the move, John Wannamaker will be pushed to second place.

~ We concluded our tour with Mr. Jordan saying we'd have to reconvene at the Julia Building and see the preparations for moving into the new location.

He slurped another oyster, clearing his mind. Monk then located his column, and picked up the paper to read it.

We have been speaking, dear readers, of street vendors. Another to be seen in our fair city is a bit of a trickster – The Canary Man. Being stationed at some convenient alley-mouth, his style of game is the following: after setting up shop, he uncovers his bird and draws attention for a round of public fortune-telling. Once a crowd is gathered, the wily Canary Man chooses the most likely 'flat' – or rube with cash – and places a series of small envelopes the size of postage stamps on a rack attached to the outside of the cage. He tells his mark, "Inform the bird, young man, of your name and what you wish to know about a future business dealing. My canary will 'sing' a great fortune for you."

The 'gorger'[2] states his inquiry, and lo and behold – tempted by a sleight of hand in which the trainer shows the yellow one a choice sesame seed – the bird hops around with excited motion, and chooses an envelope. Only the vendor reads it, and miraculously, it turns out to be a great boon of information to the young man.

The rube, insisting he must have this auspicious avian wonder for his daily consults, hears the vendor insist such a valuable creature is beyond price. But soon both settle upon a weighty sum.

"Will he sing?!" is inevitably asked, and the Canary Man assures 'he' will only if the flat is to be a success. Of course, the bird is a female and will never bother with a trilling discourse in her life.

Eventually the conned Dawdy Dandie realizes he's been made a sucker, and fobs the bird off on the first child willing to support a pretty-but-useless pet.[3]

Monk's train of thought was interrupted by commotion at the door. He glanced up. A woman was brushing past the Maitre d'. He trailed her, protesting vociferously, but she ignored him with commanding tact and headed to a table near the entryway. She stopped and asked the gentlemen seated there a question, which apparently caused the men to point in Monk's direction. The young woman nodded her appreciation.

She then made a beeline for the reporter, her chatelaine rattling mightily. Monk, astonished, stood and pulled the napkin from his vest opening, once he realized it was still there.

The Maitre d' cried out in exasperation: "Mr. Monk, I am sorry, but this – "

"Mr. McDonough; Monk McDonough?" she asked.

"Yes, that's me."

"I'm Elizabeth Waverly, with the city's Board of Education."

"Madam," attempted the head waiter, "I'm afraid you cannot – "

"Miss – if you please!"

"Miss, you may not stay. This is a gentleman's restaurant."

"William," Monk said calmly. "Miss Waverly and I have an appointment. I must apologize – "

"Mr. Monk! This is highly unusual."

She sat. "A carte, if you please, my good man."

Monk assured the beet-red host, "I take full responsibility. We will not bother a soul, will we, Miss Waverly?"

"Not as long as I get a menu."

"Well," the man 'in charge' sighed, but quickly departed.

Monk sat down, wide-eyed. "You've shaken the venerable old Oyster Bar at the Planter's Hotel to its very core."

"Good. Some things need to be shaken up."

She was a handsome woman: slender figure, very authoritative in her mannerisms, which showed a rich upbringing. Her dark brown hair was done up, but she was daringly without a hat. The eyes regarding him now were cognac-hued and mirthful; the perfect observer used to keeping order in the classroom with just a glance.

"And pardon my rudeness, but who the devil are you exactly, Miss Waverly of the city's Board of Education?"

"I was sent to find you, sir."

That was not the answer he expected.

"By who?"

Doubt shadowed the firebrand's features for the first time. She glanced over her shoulder. "By your cousin."

Monk blinked and racked his brain. "Which cousin – "

"Felix Yeager."

At first the name only barely sparked with him. "I have a large and extended family – Oh, the boy caught up in the General Strike melee?"

"The very same one, sir."

"But how do you – "

"Do you know where he is now?"

"He was convicted on some trumped up charges and shipped off to the House of Refuge."

She scoffed: "So-called."

"What is this about?"

"He told me to seek you out and beg for your assistance."

The waiter arrived with a menu.

Monk asked the lady, "Will you have oysters?"

"Yes." She handed the menu back. "A dozen blue points, young man."

"Very good, miss."

He departed.

"My assistance?" Monk inquired.

"Yes. He was – as you say – tried and sentenced by a judge for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He, along with the boy caught with him, were given three years in the city's juvenile house of detention."

"And you know this how?"

"I volunteer my time there, sir. I ensure the boys and girls receive their schooling, have books, slates; anything else they may need."

"I see."

"Your cousin is seventeen, and his sentence is coming to an end."

Monk shook his head. "Three years in that place; it seems excessive punishment."

"I'm pleased you think so."

"Why?"

"Because both boys have parents who refuse to accept legal cognizance for them."

"Oh."

"Without parental signatories, the city will keep them incarcerated until age twenty-one."

"Four more years."

"Yes, and they want your help."

"The city won't accept my signature."

"No, it's sadly true that they won't. But Felix would not leave Hampden even if you could be his guardian."

"So then, I don’t know how – "

"Since you are family and politically well-connected, together we can help the boys…" she glanced over her shoulder again "…escape."

"Escape!" He took a calming breath, after being thoroughly rebuked by her school-marm eyes. He glanced around, seeing several gentlemen looking their way. He lowered his voice, elbows on the table, leaning in to whisper: "Escape? Are you a madwoman, miss?"

"I am not, sir. I am but one who cares. Your cousin and his intimate are fine young men. But I feel they will not see the end of their terms."

"If they've survived three years already, from the age of thirteen, then – "

"I mean, sir, Refuge is a business. These boys are valuable cogs to the operation, and bogus infractions and additional 'charges' are the only things to which these young men can look forward. That and corporal punishment for even the slightest 'irregularity.'"

Monk felt sick. "Miss – "

She gripped his hand. "I used to read your column, Mr. McDonough, before it turned – well, anyway. I know in your heart of hearts you are still a social activist just as much as I am. I only ask you go there. Meet with Felix. Talk to him yourself."

"Miss Waverly – "

"It's not too much to ask. These boys are lucky in a way, do you see, Mr. Monk? They still have some family, unlike most of the poor wretched lads locked away and forgotten."

Monk glanced at his folded newspaper, still laying next to his half-empty oyster dish. The paper remained open to his trifling 'color' piece about life on the streets. Before the General Strike he used to freely write about social iniquities in the system and the city. Now the truth was he preferred light entertainment as a way to forget. Those four nights in July 1877 – the ones the boys were swept up in – were still too painful for him to approach rationally.

He lifted his eyes to the woman again. The boys were lucky, and her request for Monk to go see for himself was nothing if not reasonable.