Last Descendants by Matthew J. Kirby
“Read it where?”
“A letter Mr. Tweed wrote.”
“Tweed?” Varius asked, coming suddenly more alert. “Boss Tweed?”
“Yes,” Eliza said. “I’m a maid in his house. He sent my father to deliver a message to Cudgel, and then Cudgel took my father somewhere.”
“You saw this message?”
“In a manner of speaking. I saw the traces of it left behind on the paper beneath.”
Another pause. “Your vision is remarkable.”
She made a show of looking him over. “You just going to lie there, or what?”
“I would get up,” he said, “but I can’t without help. The toxin is still keeping my legs from working.”
“Then let me help you.” Eliza moved closer so Varius could get an arm over her neck and shoulders. Then, together, they hoisted him to his feet, though he was far from steady.
“What did the rest of the message say?” he asked.
“It called you an Assassin, for one thing,” she said. “It said you were after something important in the hotel, and that the riots today are going to tip the balance of the war.”
“Let us hope not.” Varius leaned on Eliza, and together they limped and shuffled out of the alley into Ann Street and the light of a hot sun. They turned together toward Broadway. “Did the message say anything else?”
“It said Cudgel was to stop you or kill you and bring whatever it was you had to Mr. Tweed’s house this evening.”
“This evening.” Varius nodded. “Then there is still hope.”
“Hope for what?”
“To save the country,” he said.
They reached Broadway, turned north, and saw the mob.
“Oh no,” Eliza said.
“It has begun,” Varius said.
Two blocks farther up Park Row, in the small square before the New York Tribune building, a mass of rioters surged. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, blocking the streets and the railway. The Tribune was for Lincoln, with abolitionist views, which had made it a target for those furious over the draft and emancipation. A man stood up on a wagon before them wearing a light coat and a Panama hat, his fist in the air, bellowing something Eliza couldn’t hear from where she stood.
“You shouldn’t be seen,” Varius said, still unable to stand on his own. “It won’t be safe for blacks today.”
“Where should we go?”
“Somewhere I can rest. I’m useless to either of us until I get my legs back.”
There was an eating house called Windust’s nearby, on the corner of Ann Street and Park Row, which was just opening. Eliza helped Varius through the door, and though the maître d’ seemed a bit perplexed by their appearance—a black serving woman with a hobbled white man—he nevertheless showed them to a table and offered them menus. They were the only two patrons there at that time, and Eliza helped Varius sit down in his chair before taking one for herself.
“Are you well, sir?” the maître d’ asked.
“I will be,” Varius said. “After I rest a spell.”
“Quite a commotion out there,” the maître d’ said.
Varius nodded.
“They’re protesting the draft, are they not?”
“Among other things,” Varius said.
“The Democrats are certainly not fond of the Tribune,” he said. “Mr. Greeley, the newspaper’s editor, dines here frequently. I hope he will be safe from the protestors.”
“If he’s smart,” Varius said, “he’ll have cleared out of the city by now.”
Varius selected coffee and eggs Benedict from the menu, and insisted upon having some brought for Eliza, too. She wasn’t sure what to make of the situation in which she now found herself. Her father had been taken somewhere by a man who could climb sheer walls, and she had just helped a confessed Assassin to his feet and into a restaurant, where they were now about to eat breakfast together.
The food came, and once Eliza had taken a bite of it, she realized she was ravenous, and ate in earnest. She could sense Varius watching her, taking his time with his dish, and she tried not to let it make her feel self-conscious.
“Tell me more about this vision of yours,” he said.
“I don’t know what else to say about it.” Eliza set her fork down and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “At times, I see something, and I know it’s important. Other times, I see a man, like you, and I can tell you whether his intentions are good or evil. Sometimes, like with the message, I can see the traces of things left behind as if they’re illuminated.”
“Does your father have this sight?”
“No. But they say my mother did.”
“I’m sorry. How old were you when she died?”
“I was eight years old,” she said.
“Did she teach this sight to you?”
“No,” Eliza said, wrinkling the space between her eyebrows. “Why are you so interested?”
He didn’t answer, and instead took a bite of food, and then a sip of his coffee.
“If you won’t answer that, then tell me what Cudgel took from you.” Eliza hadn’t forgotten that Varius had removed something of great worth from the Astor House.
“That is complicated,” Varius said. “Perhaps—”
The door to the restaurant opened and an elderly gentleman walked in. He wore a bleached white duster, like a country preacher, with a floppy hat, farmer’s boots, and spectacles upon his nose.
“Mr. Greeley!” the maître d’ exclaimed. “Are you quite well, sir?”
“As well as can be expected,” Mr. Greeley said.
This, then, was the editor of the Tribune. Eliza had to admire his boldness in walking about.
“There’s a mob out there, did you know?” Mr. Greeley said. “I do believe they would like to hang me from a tree in the park. But if I can’t have my breakfast when I’m hungry, my life isn’t worth anything to me.”
“You must take care, Mr. Greeley,” the maître d’ said. “Be cautious.”
“Cautious?” Mr. Greeley stomped over to a table without being invited, and took a seat as if it were his custom. “Now is not the time for caution. The fate of the nation hangs in the balance. Caution will see it lost to the Peace Democrats and the Rebels. I would run for president myself, if I thought it was necessary.” He then seemed to notice Eliza and Varius for the first time and gave them a nod.
Varius nodded back and turned to Eliza. “My legs are recovered. I’d rather you not be here if the mob comes in looking for him.”
Eliza agreed and Varius paid for their meals. Then they slipped out the door into the street. Varius led them across Broadway, seeming fully recovered, then down Vesey Street between the hotel and the chapel of St. Paul’s. The heat outside stuck to Eliza’s skin within a few paces, humid and relentless. When they reached Church Street they turned uptown.
“Where is Boss Tweed’s house?” he asked.
“Thirty-Sixth Street,” Eliza said. “Between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.”
“That’s quite a distance through a city in riot.” He narrowed his eyes at Eliza as though pondering something. “We could go up,” he said.
“Up? You don’t mean climbing the walls, do you?”
“That is exactly what I mean.” He smiled. “Trust me. It’s in your blood.”
Abraham came out of the Hole-in-the-Wall unsure of what to do or where to go. His body had arrived at that place of exhaustion where he knew it might give out on him without warning. He had pushed his bones to their breaking point, then gone the entire night without sleep, and he knew the pain was waiting for him a block away, perhaps two, and he would do Eliza no good if he collapsed in the street.
This gap you’re in now is pretty wide, Monroe said. The simulation will be extrapolated for a while, using historical data. It might not feel quite as … real.
“So what should I do?” David asked.
Stay safe, and be ready to get to the next intersection on time. You’ll meet up with Se
“Stay safe where?”
Maybe Abraham knows. Listen to him.
David knew it would be impossible for Abraham to make it all the way back to Mr. Tweed’s house until he had rested, and even then, the matter was far from settled. The streets had gone quiet, emptied of the gangs who had taken their protest uptown. Abraham had no way of knowing what kind of dangers or riot lay between him and Eliza, but the image of that boy, the one who’d drawn his finger across his throat, gave his blood cold warning.
With a silent hope that Eliza had heeded Gallus Mag and gone back up to Mr. Tweed’s house, Abraham turned down Dover Street, and a block later, he reached the Colored Sailors’ Home. Abraham had never visited the place before, but he knew of it, and hoped to find a refuge there.
It was a large brick edifice rising five stories above the street, with a modest sign out front. Abraham knocked on the door, but at that hour he had to try several times and wait before someone answered him.
When the door finally opened, a stocky black man of medium height and middle age greeted him barefoot, in trousers, his shirt hanging loose about him, his eyes more on the street than on Abraham. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“I’m wondering if I might seek refuge with you,” Abraham said.
“Oh. Of course.” The man rubbed his face and stepped aside to allow Abraham admittance. “Of course, please, come in. All who come in peace are welcome.”
Abraham stepped through the door into a foyer flanked by two rooms. A wide hallway reached away into the building, lit partway along by the light falling down a staircase.
Abraham’s host shut the door behind them and locked it. “May I ask your name?”
“Abraham.”
An Indian woman emerged from one of the rooms off the foyer, dressed in her nightgown, about the same age as the man who had opened the door. “Abraham, welcome,” she said.
“I’m William Powell,” the man said. “This is my wife, Mercy, and together we run this home.”
“I’m grateful for your hospitality, Mr. Powell,” Abraham said. “And I’m sorry to intrude at this early hour. I just needed a safe place to rest. I’ve been on the streets most of the night.”
“Of course,” Mr. Powell said. “There are beds upstairs.”
He and his wife led Abraham down the hallway to the staircase he had glimpsed, and then up it, past a window that looked out onto the street.
“How is it out there?” Mrs. Powell asked.
“Ominous,” Abraham said. “The rioters have all begun to move uptown for whatever it is they’re planning.”
“It’ll be a dark day tomorrow,” Mr. Powell said. “A day I’ve warned would come.”
“What is it you do here?” Abraham asked.
“We provide a moral home for black sailors on shore,” Mrs. Powell said. “A place of safety from the snares and temptations that beset them. We allow no alcohol, and we provide our men with God’s word, a library, and the means to better themselves. When needed, we help them find honest work.”
They reached the top of the stairs, and Abraham found they were in a long hallway with many empty bedrooms, their doors wide open.
“We also host abolitionist meetings here,” Mr. Powell said. “I’m a founding member of the Anti-Slavery Society. We’ve sheltered and helped many former slaves to escape, along with Albro Lyons, just over on Vandewater Street.”
“You do God’s work,” Abraham said. “I came up through Staten Island.”
“God bless you,” Mrs. Powell said.
“Good people over there,” Mr. Powell said.
“They are.” Abraham glanced into one of the nearby rooms, with its simple bed and its Bible upon the table. “You seem to be rather vacant.”
Mrs. Powell nodded. “Most of our men left yesterday, as soon as we received warning about the protests. They took the ferries over to Brooklyn and some to New Jersey.”
“But not you?” Abraham asked.
“This is my home,” Mr. Powell said. “I won’t be driven from it.”
Abraham admired his courage.
“This room is cleaned and ready for you.” Mrs. Powell swept a hand toward one of the open doors. “Please, rest. You’re welcome to stay here until the trouble has passed.”
“I won’t impose on you for long,” Abraham said. “I need to find my daughter. I plan to leave with her this evening for Hoboken.”
“Then take what rest you can,” Mr. Powell said.
These were good people. Almost too good, in a way. Maybe this was what Monroe had meant about it seeming not quite real.
They left him in the room, but he didn’t shut the door, and he lay down upon the bed above the covers, without even removing his shoes. The mattress, though thin and old, received him with as much tenderness and care as it could, and his body thanked it. The pain in his knees and back lessened, and he sighed and closed his eyes.
The simulation went black, images fleeting into and out of view, like holding a flashlight in a darkened room, seeing only what its beam could illuminate at one time. The streets of the city, the moon above a swamp, Gallus Mag laughing with Skinny Joe. It almost felt as if David was desynchronizing.
“What’s happening?” he asked aloud. “Monroe?”
He’s dreaming, Monroe said. Nothing to worry about.
“Dreaming? But it’s so dark.”
The Animus is extrapolating them to fill the gap, Monroe said. Just sit tight and relax.
David was having trouble relaxing. Eliza was out there in the city somewhere, which meant Grace was out there, too. She was the one David really worried about. She was the one who always made sure nothing bad happened to him, who took the heat and never once made him feel like he owed her for it.
But the simulation had done something to that relationship. His experience of Abraham’s concern for Eliza had changed David’s concern for his sister. He wasn’t just looking to her to take care of him anymore. He was looking to take care of her.
“When do I meet up with Grace?” David asked.
You have an intersection with her after you meet Sean and Natalya.
“What kind of intersection?”
There was a pause. Not sure, he said, but it seemed as though he was holding something back.
The dream state went on for some time, but eventually Abraham woke up, and David settled down to listen to his mind as the old man rose from the bed. His knees and back ached, but with the memory of pain, rather than present injury. He checked his watch, and found he had slept through the morning and it was now after one o’clock in the afternoon.
Out in the hallway, Abraham heard voices and followed them down to the library. There he found Mrs. Powell reading to three children, two girls and a boy. The boy looked to be about twelve. One of the girls seemed near Eliza’s age, the other much younger, with shriveled legs, sitting on her mother’s lap.
Mrs. Powell looked up at Abraham standing in the doorway. “Please, come in.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” Abraham said.
“Nonsense, come, sit. Did you have a good rest?”
“I did,” he said. “Where is Mr. Powell?”
“He went out against my wishes to find out what’s been happening.”
“But you’ve had no disturbances?”
“Not at all,” she said, her voice cheerful, her eyes on her children.
“You don’t have to pretend, Mother,” the oldest daughter said.
Abraham cleared his throat. “Thank you again for your hospitality. I think I’ll be making my way home now.”
“Oh, please, Abraham,” Mrs. Powell said. “At least wait until William is home. So we know how the city fairs.”
Abraham considered that suggestion, and concluded it was probably wise. If Mr. Powell could provide him with some intelligence about the rioters and their activities, Abraham could plan the safest route uptown.
“Very well,” he said, and took one of the armch
Mrs. Powell went back to reading a fairy tale from Hans Christian Andersen, about a princess who could apparently feel a pea through any number of mattresses and bolsters. The younger Powell children giggled at the story, while the older daughter paced around the room, peering out the windows.
“I wish Billy were here,” she said with a sigh.
“Who is Billy?” Abraham asked.
“Our oldest son,” Mrs. Powell said. “He was just made a surgeon-in-chief for the army. He wanted to help with the war effort.”
“You must be proud,” Abraham said.
“I am,” she said. “Though I wish he received the same pay and respect as a white surgeon.”
“I wish he were here,” the oldest daughter said again.
A door opened on the floor below them, and then a moment later, footsteps came up the stairs. Then Mr. Powell walked into the library with his mouth open, as if he was about to say something, but he shut it as soon as he seemed to notice his children. “Mercy, could I speak with you out in private?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Powell said. “Mary, would you take Sarah?”
The oldest daughter went over and took her younger, invalid sister in her arms, while Mrs. Powell rose from her chair.
“Abraham,” Mr. Powell said, “might I have a word with you as well?”
“Of course.” Abraham had been hoping for as much.
The three of them moved into the hallway and down to its far end, where they would be out of the children’s earshot.
“It’s dire out there,” he said. “Twenty black families in Baxter and Leonard streets were driven from their burning homes. The rioters destroyed Crook and Duff’s restaurant. They just now burned down the State Armory on Twenty-First. They’ve assaulted the Tribune building. They’re everywhere in the city, looting shops and homes, and setting them alight, seizing any black man they can get their hands on and beating him. Some unto death, I hear. The police are powerless to stop them. The patrolmen are outnumbered many hundreds to a man, and where they’ve managed to drive back the mob, it either returns stronger or simply moves elsewhere.”