THE POLICEMAN’S DEATH.
“It was during the Rebellion,” said Mrs. Laurence, “when the
laboring-classes of the city went wild with a mad idea that the draft
was intended to oppress them and favor the rich. Most of our city troops
had been drawn off to check the advance of the enemy, and a fearful duty
fell upon the police—as brave a set of men as ever went to any
battlefield.
“The riot came upon us unexpectedly. My husband seemed rather more than
usually anxious that morning, but not really apprehensive. He was then a
captain in the force, and held to be one of the bravest and most
experienced men among them. You have seen him. You know what manner of
man he was; but, no—you knew him in his youth—this was in his perfect
prime. In the glow of health, in the might of firm resolution, he left
me that day. I watched him going down the street, from that window—that
very window, sir. We had just built this house, then, and were making it
a home for the children. The youngest was by my side; he had mounted a
chair, and was clapping his hands and shouting for his father to look
back.
“Leonard was anxious, and walked on swiftly; for strange noises were in
the air, while groups of men and women gathered in the street, suddenly,
as if they sprang out of the earth. Still, my husband heard the shouts
of his child, and turning, waved his hand to us. I saw that no smile
lighted his face. He stopped, and seemed to listen. A low howl swept up
the street, as if a den of wild beasts were clamoring for food. This
time, he waved his club, and plunged into a great crowd of people, that
choked up the street, menacing him with threats. That great heaving
crowd poured itself upon him and tossed him into its midst with shouts
that made me quake from head to foot.
“That was an awful day. He had left me in charge of our children, and I
dared not leave them for a moment. My home was in the very heart of a
disaffected district. My husband was obnoxious, from his strict
discharge of duty, and suspected of more education, and higher ambition,
than the horde that surrounded us. Lonely as our household was, danger
menaced us. Twice during the day a crowd came up the street, swarmed
into our little garden, and threatened to burn the house. They would
have done it, too, but for Eva, who flung the door open, and standing on
the threshold, told them that she was there to protect her mother and
two children, younger and weaker than herself.
“Oh, sir! if you could have seen that child standing there, and braving
that crowd of fiends! How beautiful she looked, with her coal black hair
all abroad; her great eyes burning with courageous fire, hurling words
of wild appeal, like bullets, into the crowd. They met her, first, with
groans of derision, then with fierce shouts of applause, swearing that
she was worthy to lead in their own hot work; worthy of a place by the
demoniac women who knew how to cut their way through fire and blood to
the heart of an aristocrat.
“Before I could reach my child, or even cry out, a gaunt, gray-headed
old woman, with blazing eyes, and lips blistered with oaths, seized her
by the arm, shouting,
“‘Yes, yes! let us set her on to help us! She shall tear the brats from
out of their silk nests in the avenue, up yonder, and drown them in the
gutters! This is fancy work; just fit for a daring imp that isn’t afraid
of _us_! Them who ain’t afeared to fight us are bound to lead us. We
want a girl, about her age, to hunt up the small fry, and fling them
down for us to trample in the mud.’
“As the woman spoke, she lifted Eva from her feet, and would have hurled
her into the crowd; but I pushed the children from me, and sprang upon
her with the strength of a strong man in my arms. The struggle was short
and fierce. I rescued Eva, and thrusting her behind me, took her place
on the threshold of our home. The woman sprang upon me like a fiend;
froth flew like snow-flakes from her writhing lips, and a glow of blood
burned in her eyes—but I had three children to save.
“How I saved them; what words were used; if the strength of desperation,
that fairly turned every nerve in my body to iron, was put forth at all,
I do not know; but the crowd broke, filling the air with shouts of
laughter, and surged away, dragging that fiend-woman with them.
“Then I bolted the doors, and fell down, weaker and more helpless than
the children who crept around me, too frightened for crying. All day
long, the howling of the mob, the shrieks of terrified negroes, and the
rush of crowds, sweeping by on some errand of destruction, filled us
with shuddering dread. When night came we were still alone, watchful and
trembling with unutterable fear. I did not think it strange that my
husband was absent. While there was a duty to perform, I knew that we
need not hope to see him. But, oh, the suspense was terrible!
“All night we waited and listened to the gathering storm, to the
howlings of the mob, the startling crash of fire-bells, following close
on each other, and the sharp shrieks of men and women, trampled under
foot by the merciless rioters, whose fury it was my husband’s duty to
quell. Oh, that was an awful night! At each sound my children would
creep closer to me, and while the heart quivered in my bosom, I tried to
comfort them.
“Toward morning, a messenger came from my husband. He was still at his
post, and might not be able to leave it that day. We must keep bravely
up, and remain quiet, otherwise his mind would be so distracted that it
might be hard to go through what lay before him.
“I learned from the messenger that Leonard had tasted no food since
morning, and hastily gathered up what there was cooked in the house. I
sent it to him with the children’s love. Of course, we would be brave
and quiet, I said. He must not care for us. I would mind the children,
if God would only take care of him. I said this bravely, but my heart
quailed within me as I spoke.
“The messenger promised to come back in an hour or two, and we waited
for him with growing terror, for the crash of the fire-bells was
perpetual now. All around us, red tongues of flame were shooting up
through burning roofs, and the streets were full of straggling rioters,
with the plunder of sacked homes on their backs; some of them reeling
with intoxication, and cursing everything they met, as men and women
cursed each other around the guillotines of Paris, and in the slaughter
of the communes. These sights kept me at the window. An awful
fascination drew me toward the street whenever a fresh mob came crowding
along it. How did I know that he might not be there struggling against
the stormy passions that filled the city with smoke and thunder.
“The sun was going down on the second day, and there we stood, carefully
holding back the window-curtain, and straining our eyes to catch the
first glimpse of his coming, or of some messenger who could tell us of
his safety. All at once, a sound of low, growling thunder rolled down
one of the cross-streets, and before we could tell what it meant, a
group of policemen came up the street, each man armed and resolute, but
white as marble, with a knowledge of the fearful odds against them. The
leader of these men, towering above them all, was my husband. He never
once looked toward the house. Perhaps he feared that the sight of it
would unman him. With a loud, ringing voice, that reached us where we
stood, he gave some orders to his men, who ranged themselves across the
street, from which danger threatened. In a moment they were swept back
by a throng of rioters—swept back and scattered by a rush of
overpowering numbers. A shot was fired, and one man fell—the tallest,
the grandest. Oh, God, help me!—the bravest of them all. I saw him go
down. I saw the mob trample over him with yells of rage. His groans, his
death-agony are unheeded as the stones under those brutal feet.
“I never knew how it was done, but in a moment I was struggling and
buffeting my way through that avalanche of human fiends, as drowning men
fight with the surging waters of a flood. Perhaps they had some
compassion; or, it may be, that my white face frightened them, for the
crowd broke where he was lying, and scattered away, tracking his blood
upon the pavement as they went. I fell down on my knees by his side. I
laid my hand on his heart, and drew it away wet and red. His eyes were
open; but they could not see his poor wife; his lips were parted beneath
the shadow of his beard, which the wind stirred, and it seemed to me
that he was speaking. But, no; his murderers had done their work well. I
knelt down upon those hot, dusty stones and covered my face, that they
might not look upon the agony of my grief.
“Eva had followed me, and the little ones had clung to her shivering and
crying as she pressed through the crowd. We were all together—his little
family, wife and children—but he was dead. They would not believe it,
but called upon him with feeble cries to look up and say that he was not
much hurt. I knew that he was dead; that they were orphans, and _I_, his
wife, a widow.”