Hot corn: Life Scenes in New York Illustrated Part 40

"Oh, is she? I am sure then I am very sorry. Can I do anything about helping to get her ready to be buried?"

"No, she was buried long ago. You may see her grave some day in Greenwood Cemetery."

"I don't see, then, what was the gentleman's great hurry, if n.o.body is sick and n.o.body to be buried."

"Perhaps the mother is sick--perhaps in want--perhaps some unknown power has drawn him to her a.s.sistance. I have seen stranger things than that. This is a strange world."

"Indeed it is, ma'am. And there is a strange noise in the street." And she looked from the window.

"What can it be, Bridget, there is a crowd around our area fence, and see, there is a woman under the steps by the bas.e.m.e.nt door. Go down and see what is the matter. Are you afraid? Well then, I will go with you; it is somebody that a parcel of brutal men and boys are persecuting. No matter who, or what she is, she is a woman, and should be protected."

So down they went and she said to them, "Oh men, men, where is your manhood, thus to hunt a woman through the streets? Have you forgotten that mothers bore you in pain into this world? Have you no daughters, no sisters, are you savages--wolves--is this a lamb or stricken deer, that ye trail by her b.l.o.o.d.y track?"

"No, ma'am," said a bull pup looking boy, "she is drunk, and we is just having a little fun with her, that is all."

G.o.d of mercy! Didst thou make man in thine own image, and yet leave him void of that heavenly attribute--mercy! Why, "a merciful man is merciful to his beast," and yet these images of their Maker hunt this poor woman through the streets of a Christian city, as savages hunt tigers through the jungles of Africa--for fun. What for? "She is drunk." A potent reason, surely. Who made her so? How came she drunk? Who is she, what is she? No matter, she is a woman, in distress at a woman's door, and she must, she shall be protected. There is a commotion in the crowd. The human blood-hounds are about to lose their prey--They want more _fun_.

"Bring her out Bill, never mind the women--it is none of their business--bring her out and let us see her run again. She is a real '2.40' nag."

And they shouted and screamed like so many wild Indians.

What but savages are they? True they had white skins and Christian clothes, and spoke the language of a civilized nation, and dwelt in "one of the first cities in the world." Yet they pursued a poor, young, helpless female, like a hunted hare through the streets, and now press hard upon her two protectors; one a delicate, sickly lady, the other a timid servant girl, with a cry to Bill, the leader, to "bring her out"--to drag her by force from where she has sunk down upon the very threshold of a house which she hopes may offer her protection, yet she dares not ask it. Shame has overcome her, she buries her face in her hands as she sits crouched up in a corner, but neither looks up nor speaks. The crowd press forward, the servant shrinks back, the lady stands firm, with a determination to protect or perish.

Can she do it? What can a woman without strength, do against a pack of loosened blood-hounds, already licking their chops with delight at the sight of their prey?

"Drag her out, some of ye, down there, why don't ye," screamed a human tiger, in the rear of the crowd; "don't mind that woman, she is no better than the gal. Let me in and I'll bring her."

A strong hand is laid upon the poor girl's arm, and for the first time she looks up, but ventures not a word. The look was enough. It appealed to a woman's heart for protection--an appeal that never failed. How can she protect the helpless with her feeble strength, against the brutal force of rum crazed men and vicious boys, who shout, "drag her out, drag her out."

Will they do it? They heed not the appealing look of their victim--their object of sport--_fun_--fun for them, death to her. They heed not the appealing words of her who would protect. G.o.d help you, poor soul, you have drank wine--you are drunk in the streets at midnight--you have none but those who are as weak as yourself, to save you, poor, timid, stricken fawn.

"Drag her out, drag her out." How it rung in her ears! How those terrible words went down into her soul!

Succor is at hand.

There was a shout, a yell, a horrid scream of anguish, a few hurried oaths, a pus.h.i.+ng, shoving, care-for-self-only struggle among the crowd, as a shower of smoking water fell among them, and they were gone.

The lady turned her eyes, and there stood Mrs. McTravers, in her night cap, pail in hand, her effective engine of war.

"Oh, Mrs. McTravers, how could you scald them?"

"Didn't they deserve it, the brutes?"

"Yes, yes; no, not so bad as that. I am afraid you have put out their eyes."

"Oh, never fear that. Didn't I timper it, like 'the wind to the shorn lamb,' just warm enough to wash the faces of the dirty spalpeens, and give them a good fright? How the cowards did run. What were they afraid of? I had spent all my ammunition in the first volley. This is nothing but cold water, and that never hurt anybody. It is a pity the scurvy dogs did not use more of it every day, and nothing else. They would never chase poor girls through the streets, if they drank nothing but water."

"Come, young woman, you can get up now and go home, if you have any to go to, and if you have not, what are you going to do with yourself?"

"Why, Mrs. McTravers, we will take her in and put her to bed, and let her sleep till morning."

"Take her in? What, take a common street-walker in to disgrace your house?"

"Indeed, my dear, good, kind lady," said the object of their conversation, now for the first time speaking. "I am no street-walker--I am not what you take me for. Do not--pray do not, force me to go into the street again to-night. Let me lay here on the door-sill till daylight."

"Never! It shall never be said I refused to give shelter to one of my own s.e.x in distress, no matter what she is or has been. Mrs. McTravers, she must have a bed in the house to-night."

"I should like to know then where you will find it. Every bed in the house is full."

"I will give her mine then, and sleep myself on the floor."

"No, no, no, let me sleep on the floor--on the hearth--on the stones in the back-yard, rather than go in the street again, but I won't sleep in your bed."

"Well, well, come with me to my room. I will make you a bed on the floor, and you shall sleep there."

"Sure, sure, Heaven will bless you; and if you knew all you would forgive me, for I am not so bad as you think I am, or as that woman thinks I am."

"Oh, never mind what she says, she has a good heart after all. Come, come along with me."

"Did you ever see the like of it. She is going to take that thing to her room, a miserable tramper; I dare say the house will be robbed before morning. I will pick up the spoons, and lock all the closets, before I go to bed again. Dear me, did anybody ever see such a woman as that? She never sees a woman in rags, but she wants to pull off her shawl, and give her. I dare say, she won't let this girl out of the house to-morrow till she has all her draggled clothes washed and fixed up, and may be then will send for a carriage to take her away. It is a great plague to anybody to have such a tender heart. It is all the time getting them into trouble.

"There, now I believe the silver is all safe, but mercy knows what will become of this night's adventure. So much for getting drunk. What does anybody want to get drunk for? There was McTravers, the brute, always getting drunk. I am sure, I love a little bitters to clear my throat in the morning, and a gla.s.s or two of wine at dinner, and a little hot stuff as I am going to bed, but as for getting drunk--bah--I hate anybody that gets drunk. Oh, dear, this night air, I wish I had not wasted all the hot water on the drunken dogs, for I do feel as though I wanted a dram now, and no more water--what will I do? I must take a little cold, or I shall not sleep a wink to-night. Bah, how I hate drunkards."

What for, Mrs. McTravers, why should you hate your own manufacture?

Let the reader reflect; there is a night before him.

When the curtain rises, we shall see what the author saw last night.

CHAPTER XV.

LITTLE KATY'S MOTHER.

"A true devoted pilgrim is not weary, To measure kingdoms with his steps."

When Mrs. McTravers told me that Mrs. De Vrai had sent a message for me, I was too weary to measure steps along a few blocks; but when I read those three little magic words, weariness had gone. Bridget thought so too. "He is gone, ma'am." Yes, he was gone, gone abroad at midnight with a merry heart.

"A merry heart goes all day, Your sad one tires in a mile."

A mile was soon told, and I felt no tiring. Up this step and that, peering at the blind numbers on the doors; how could I tell one from the other? The almanac said there should be moons.h.i.+ne at this hour, the clouds and rain put in their veto. No matter, the almanac had said it, and that was enough for the gas contractors. If the moon chose to get behind a cloud, it was none of their look out. They would not light their lamps, though darkness, thick, black darkness, spread over the earth. Why should they? It was not in the bond. So the traveller plodded on in the dark. How could one see the numbers? Not by city light, but by city license. Here burns a "coffee-house" lamp, where rum alone is sold. More improvident than his city fathers, this one lights up his lamp, of dark, rainy nights, whether the moon is in the almanac, or city fathers' brains. His number is plain enough. 'Tis an even number--I am on the wrong side of the street. Now, cross over, and here is, 47, 49, 51, 53--this must be it, and yet it cannot be. It is a neat, two story, brick house, with bas.e.m.e.nt and attic, in a row of the same sort, in a clean, wide street.

It is a very unlikely place for such a home as we have seen, for the home of Little Katy's mother.

How, are we deceived again? It must be in the number; perhaps we can not see it rightly by the dim glimmer of the grog-shop lamp. It is the first glimmer that ever came from such a place to any good.