fourteen

Faith, Mother, and I hurried around the corner onto Friend Street toward the polling site at eight the next morning. Mother had been given an exuberant greeting by the children last night, and even Frederick had shed his unpleasant manner for the evening to welcome her.

When we’d left the house this morning, Faith had shown us a small notebook and two sharpened pencils. “I’m going to take notes on the demonstration and write an article for the Amesbury and Salisbury Villager.” Her cheeks were rosy with excitement at the prospect of being published again in our weekly newspaper. We’d invited Frederick to walk over to the polls with us, but he’d declined. At least he hadn’t raised a fuss again about Faith accompanying us. Perhaps the calming presence of my mother had something to do with it.

Voting was taking place at the Armory, a recently completed town building, and the polls had already been open for an hour. I wore my bright yellow sash slung diagonally across my torso, and Mother wore one from a previous event, since the color was a symbol of the movement. She’d told me using the color of sunflowers was chosen because the flower always turns its face to the light and follows the course of the sun, as if worshiping the archetype of righteousness. She’d brought a sash for Faith, too. We received a couple of rude comments from men we passed on our way here, one glare from an older matron, and several admiring glances from women in shops we walked by.

Now I gasped. In front of a three-story brick home on the other side of the street from the Armory a hundred women in matching yellow sashes lined the sidewalk. The women stood mostly in silence, watching men file in and out of the polling place. One demonstrator held a placard reading Women Bring All Voters Into The World. Let Women Vote, and it showed a drawing of a mother cradling a baby. I wished I’d thought to create a poster like hers. Other signs read Ballots for Both or Equal Suffrage, and a number of others simply had Votes for Women printed in large block letters. Many were decorated with a yellow matching our sashes.

Elizabeth Stanton stood in the middle of the line next to a woman holding an American flag on a pole, and I spotted Zula at the far end handing out sashes to newcomers who needed them.

Faith’s eyes went big. “Granny Dot, this is stunning. Has thee ever seen a demonstration so big?”

“I have, but today’s numbers are quite impressive for a town this size.”

The dark-haired teenage girl I’d seen at the suffrage meeting waved to us. She wore her own yellow sash. “Faith, over here.”

“She’s my friend Jasmine.” Faith waved back. “I’m going to stand with her, all right?”

“What a curious appellation,” Mother said.

“She told me her mother read a translated Persian poem called ‘Rubaiyat.’” Faith smiled. “Jasmine is some fragrant tropical flower the author mentions.”

“It’s a lovely name. Go be with thy chuckaboo,” I murmured, using the term for “pal” Faith herself loved to say. I wasn’t surprised Faith had a friend with similar views and a similar courage to express them.

Mother and I joined the group and stood next to Ruby and Frannie. After my eldering on First Day, I wasn’t particularly happy to see Ruby, and she gave me a somewhat stern glance as I introduced her and Frannie to Mother. I stood a pace away as they chatted in quiet voices.

Two tall and wide arched windows flanked the arched door in the middle of the red brick building opposite, which was draped with red-white-and-blue bunting. Representatives from both the Democratic and Republican parties handed colored ballots to the men entering, the Republicans wearing tall white hats with black bands, the Democrats the same hat but with a pearl-colored band. A half dozen men held posters mounted on sticks. Several featured the president’s and A.G. Thurman’s images, and others had the faces of Benjamin Harrison and his running mate, Levi Morton. An older police officer stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes roaming constantly.

A thickset man in a bowler and overcoat approached the polls. When he saw us, he lifted his fist and shook it, an angry look on his face. The flag holder raised her standard and waved it at him in return. It was our flag, too, after all. He turned and stomped up the steps into the building.

A sashed Bertie hurried up, breathless, and squeezed my hand. She held a placard, which read What Will YOU Do For Women’s Suffrage?

“No Sophie?” I asked.

“She had a case to try, more’s the pity. And I’m late because I had to open the post office and get my assistant settled.”

I looked around for Mother to introduce her to Bertie, but she was striding toward Elizabeth.

“Isn’t this a fine turnout?” I asked.

“Splendid. Just splendid.” She gazed across the street. “I guess the men haven’t wised up and brought their own anti-suffrage signs.” She grinned.

It was true. The only signs men held were for the candidates. “And we couldn’t have gotten better weather.” The newly risen sun shone down on us and the air was mild, as if God himself approved of our actions. My cloak would be too warm later on this fine autumn day.

The women near us quieted and looked to my left. I followed suit to see John Whittier strolling toward us, swinging his silver-tipped cane.

“Good morning, Rose,” he said. “May I stand with the ladies for a bit?”

“John, thee is most welcome. And we thank thee for thy support.”

“It is a worthy cause. Might I borrow thy placard?” he asked Bertie.

She grinned and handed him the sign. “Be my guest, Mr. Whittier.”

He held the sign in front of him. He didn’t smile, but I caught the characteristic gleam in his eye. This was a man accustomed to acting contrary to society’s expectations.

“If I might say so, sir, your poem ‘The Lakeside’ has always been one of my favorites.” Bertie clasped her hands in front of her.

Along the sky, in wavy lines,

O’er isle and reach and bay,

Green-belted with eternal pines,

The mountains stretch away.

Below the maple masses sleep

Where shore with water blends,

While midway on the tranquil deep

The evening light descends.

“I love the mountains,” she said, “and those words transport me there.” She let out a happy sigh.

John smiled at her. “I wonder why thee burdens thy memory with all that rhyme. It is not well to have too much of it. Better get rid of it as soon as possible. Why, I can’t remember any of my scribblings.”

I glanced at him. Surely he was teasing.

“I once went to hear a wonderful orator and he wound up his speech with a poetical quotation,” John went on. “I clapped with all my might. Someone touched me on the shoulder and said, ‘Do you know who wrote that?’ I said, ‘No, I don’t, but it’s good.’ It seems I had written it myself.”

“Truly, sir?” Bertie put her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

I had to do the same.

He nodded gravely. “The fault is, I have written far too much. I wish half of it was in the Red Sea.”

I saw Elizabeth peering our way, Mother now standing at her side. Elizabeth waved at John. After he nodded his head at her in return, she resumed chatting with my mother. Faith saw John standing with us and grinned, scribbling madly in her notebook. Across the street Kevin approached the Armory. He stopped, faced our line, and put his hands on his hips, then dropped them and shrugged. When his gaze fell on me, he tipped his hat before turning in to vote.

He didn’t have to worry. What we were doing was peaceful and perfectly legal. We weren’t disrupting the voting process, but every passing runabout and wagon, every workman and maid who walked by, every man going in to vote—they all saw us. They read our messages and understood this issue wasn’t going away.

An hour later, a crow scratched out a call from a lamppost as more and more women joined the line, including Georgia Clarke, the affluent wife of one of the most successful carriage factory owners. Zula walked the line and counted, and reported at our end that one hundred and sixty-two women had turned out. Ruby had made her way to the other side of the group, to my relief.

John had gone in to vote after half an hour of standing in solidarity with us. A woman in an apron stood with the Cleveland-Thurman ballot distributors. She’d set up a small table with a large flat cake on it, and offered squares of the sweet as an enticement to vote the Democratic ticket. John had selected that ballot but declined the cake.

“I wonder how many of those taking Democratic ballots are Mugwumps,” Bertie said.

“I hope a lot of them are,” I said. “What a funny word for someone who switches parties, though. Where did it come from?”

“It’s an Indian word for person of importance,” Mother said, who had just returned to stand with us again. “Charles Dana of the New York Sun decided to use it in a derogatory way in the last election for the Republicans who voted for Grover Cleveland.”

“Why did they leave their party?” I asked. I knew the word Mugwump and its general meaning but I’d never learned the details behind it.

“They were mostly well-off New Yorkers who thought the Republican candidate, Blaine, was corrupt,” Bertie chimed in. “I say good for them. And for our country.” She giggled. “But I love the image I saw in a cartoon, with one of them astraddle a fence. The caption was something like ‘He has his mug on one side and his wump on the other.’”

When John came out of the Armory, he spoke with Elizabeth for a moment, then passed by where I stood. “This is a good thing you all are doing,” he said, leaning on his cane with both hands. “I’m afraid I am too old and infirm to stand here all day, but I wish you strength.”

All in earshot thanked him. Someone farther down began singing the “Daughters of Freedom” anthem we’d sung at the meeting. Every voice was raised, including John’s, with several women harmonizing in lower and higher versions of the tune. The beautiful sound resonated as we finished the last repetition of the chorus, “Sunder the fetters custom hath made! Come from the valley, hill and glade!” Faith wiped away a tear.

We had come today from the valley, the hill, the glade, from the mansions, the tenements, and modest homes like mine. I was blessed to be playing a small part in this unifying effort. I watched John leave, and turned back toward the polling place. Guy Gilbert, the young police officer I knew, arrived and exchanged a salute with the officer guarding the door. Guy waved to me before he went in to cast his vote.

Bertie nudged me. “Let’s make up a new song. How about, ‘Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the vote, we have …’ What’s next?” She sang it to the tune of “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

“I love it. Let’s see. ‘We have marched and demonstrated, we have held onto our hope.’”

She chimed in with, “‘With Stanton, Mott, and Anthony we know we will prevail, women’s vote is coming soon.’”

I joined her in, “‘Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. Glory, glory, hallelujah. The vote is coming soon.’”

“Sing it again,” Frannie demanded with a big smile, so we did, until our half of the line had picked up the words and sang along.

We’d just finished a few rounds when I saw Zeb walk toward the polls. The Parry factory must have let the men take time off to vote. He stood facing us and began to clap with a big smile on his face. Faith clapped back, too, and set off a chain reaction until all who didn’t hold signs were clapping, too. Zeb laughed and called out, “Votes for women!”

Elizabeth answered, “Votes for women!” The call echoed off the buildings as the women took it up until we were chanting in unison.

A man with a card reading Press stuck in the brim of his hat walked up to our end of the line, pencil and notebook at the ready. “Tom Kennedy, reporter for the Boston Evening Transcript, miss. What can you tell me about what’s going on here?” He shouted to be heard over the chant.

“It’s a demonstration for equal suffrage.” Couldn’t the man read?

“Organized by the Amesbury Woman Suffrage Association,” Bertie chimed in.

“Anybody famous here?” he asked, his eager eyes reminding me of a puppy’s. “I’d heard Mrs. Stanton might be in the area.”

Bertie pointed to Elizabeth. “There, in the middle. With the lace collar.”

“Thank you.”

“And John Greenleaf Whittier stood in solidarity with us this morning for more than half an hour on his way to vote,” I added.

“The Whittier?” The fellow didn’t look like he believed me.

“Of course. He lives just up the street, in case thee didn’t know. He and I are both members of the Religious Society of Friends, which is well known for fostering and supporting equality, including between men and women.”

He jotted quick notes on his pad. “Your names, please?”

I shook my head. Did I really want my name in a Boston newspaper? Bad enough I was more well-known locally than I’d like. If this was a story about my caring professional midwifery skills, that would be different. But I did want to make sure news of John made it into the article.

“Rose Carroll, midwife.” I caught Faith’s eye and beckoned her over.

“Got it. You, miss?” he said to Bertie.

“Bertie Winslow, Postmistress of Amesbury. It’s a crime women can’t vote, and you can quote me.” She flashed him her brilliant smile.

“I appreciate that, Miss Winslow.”

At Faith’s arrival, I said, “Tom, this is my niece, Faith Bailey. She’s also a reporter.”

His eyebrows went up, but he extended his hand with a rakish grin. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Bailey. You seem a bit young for the business, but I guess you have to start sometime.”

Faith blushed but shook his hand. “Thee is correct. Our local paper has printed my stories before. I hope to make journalism my career.”

“I wish you all the best in it, then. I’ll be looking for your byline.” He jotted down Faith’s name in his book.

“I thank thee,” Faith said, standing a little taller.

The reporter bade us farewell and strolled in Elizabeth’s direction. Faith had told me once a cardinal rule of journalism was, Names make news. This reporter must have had the same lesson. Before he reached Elizabeth, though, the bowler-topped man who’d shaken his fist earlier emerged from the Armory. Had it taken him an hour to vote? I hadn’t seen him leave. Maybe he’d been conversing inside.

“Never!” he shouted, his face an alarming shade of red. He stomped toward Elizabeth. Four other men walked up and flanked him. “You’ll never get the vote.”

“Never,” his companions taunted, sounding like a rude Greek chorus.

The reporter stopped and watched. He began scribbling furiously. So did Faith.

“You ladies should go home to your husbands and your babies. This is shameful and disgusting,” one yelled, glowering.

“Who’s that tabby in the middle?” another man in the group taunted, using the insulting term for an old lady. “Stirring up trouble.”

Our chanting faded away. Zeb stood watching. The reporter observed with rapt attention. A woman in a house next to the Armory shook a rug out of a second-story window with a whacking noise, then set her forearms on the windowsill to see what was happening. A carriage driver pulled his horse to a halt.

“You aren’t capable of making rational decisions,” one of the men said in a growl. “Our democracy would crumble if you could cast votes.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Next thing you know we’ll be taking care of the babies and you’ll be out at the saloon.” He shook his head in disgust.

Bowler man nodded. “Women’s suffrage will only lead to men suffering. And worse,” he said in a dire tone, mouth set, nostrils flaring.

Elizabeth linked arms with Mother on her right and the woman on her left. “We will be enfranchised,” she called in a clear, unwavering voice. “You cannot stop us. Whether we get the vote next year or in thirty years, it will happen. Women are your mental equals, whether you like it or not, and we have every much a right as you do to decide who our lawmakers will be.” She stood as tall as her short stout figure was able.

The arm linking spread down both sides of the line until it reached us.

“Not if we have anything to do with it,” Bowler man spat out, and then spat on the ground.

“This could get ugly,” Bertie whispered.

The line of men, which looked ridiculously short compared to ours, took a couple of menacing steps forward. The one who had spoken of democracy clenched his fists. To a one, these bullies looked both mean and mad.

I checked on Faith and Jasmine, who stood frowning, their arms tightly linked. What Jasmine had worried about earlier seemed to be coming true. Across the street, the officer on duty took several steps toward the men. I wished he was moving faster.

Bowler man reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at Elizabeth.

“Look out!” I shouted to her.

In a blur of movement and a burst of speed, Zeb rushed the attacker. He took him down in a flying tackle. With a sharp crack, the gun discharged and Elizabeth fell backwards.