Chapter 6

The omnibus driver, Broadway Ike, scatters the crowd when he hits the brake just short of the sidewalk, plunging Walt into the coach’s plush velvet door. He is the only passenger in the eight-seat vehicle, painted white with red trim, and stenciled SOUTHERN BROADWAY.

“That’s us, Mr. Whitman,” Ike shouts from his driver’s seat. He is a short, round man in a captain’s hat, with a shiny nose and a slouch. They’re a colorful lot, the omnibus drivers, with names like the Dressmaker, Balky Bill, and Old Elephant, and their knowledge of the city is encyclopedic.

Walt’s trust in Ike is quickly rewarded. “Oh, I know Warren, the cunt,” he says, making a fist. Turns out Warren owes Ike a lot of money for transporting a couple of stiffs to New York University a while back, and he’s waiting for him to show up in his bus again. Whitman lets it be known that he has a little unfinished business with the cunt himself. Then he steps out into the night air, biting and cold. The omnibus speeds away, leaving a clear view of the tavern where he is to meet Henry.

He has often daydreamed about their reunion. A few years ago, their friendship had developed quickly, and when it became something more, both men were surprised. Walt celebrated, but Henry hid.

Inside the Pewter Mug, Henry Saunders has already secured a table near the back. The two men acknowledge each other with a nod, then Whitman stops at the bar for a gin cocktail. The barkeep, Tony, takes the money, wishes him a good evening, and Walt strides across the tavern, scanning the clientele. He sees a few familiar faces, mostly Tammany politicians, but no notables. At the table, Walt stands up straight, makes eye contact, and smiles. “Mr. Saunders, how nice to see you.”

“Mr. Whitman.” Henry is clean-shaven and smells of citrus cologne. “I trust that Mr. Smith is resting comfortably.”

Walt begins to answer, then stops. He has a question of his own. “Did you get my letters?”

“I think of you very often, dearest Henry, and I don’t know what I should do if I hadn’t you to think of and look forward to . . . They were lovely.”

“You might have sent even a single response.”

Saunders shifts in his seat. “You’re right.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Walt.”

“Just because the world doesn’t recognize what we have doesn’t mean we cannot enjoy it.”

“It’s not only that.”

Walt braces himself for Henry’s next words.

“I’m sorry, but things can’t be the way they were.”

“And how were they?”

“Walt.”

“Why did you come back, then?”

“My parents need money to keep the farm. Mr. Ropes knew me from my work on the Plebeian, and when he contacted me about the Aurora editorship, I couldn’t refuse.”

The two men sit in silence.

“Mr. Ropes wants me to steer you away from the Stowe story,” Henry says. “He thinks you’re too personally invested.”

“But they’re my family.”

“Precisely his concern.”

“I am objective.”

Henry sighs.

“How are the students doing?” Henry finally says.

“They’re strong people,” Walt says. “But they’re heartbroken.”

“And you?”

He stifles the truth. Images of Abraham and Lena spool through his mind, their late-night dinner conversations, their support of his writing, their encouragement to mend his own fractured relationship with his father. Family is everything, Walt, Abraham said to him one evening. Life is too brief to give up on it.

At a table near the door, a shouting match breaks out over the Mary Rogers murder case. Whitman recognizes one of the combatants as Edgar Poe, an odd-looking fellow: thin, gaunt, deep-set eyes, and the author of a recently published serial, “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt,” in Snowden’s Ladies’ Companion. These stories comprise Mr. Poe’s thinly veiled fictional attempt to solve the cigar-girl murder case, an attempt made instantly irrelevant by the court case against Abraham Stowe.

The barkeep, barrel-chested and unflappable Tony, easily pushes Poe and the other man out the door, to the applause of the tavern dwellers.

Walt says, “Mr. Poe is the only person who shares my beliefs in Abraham’s and Lena’s innocence. That is a shame.”

Saunders lets a moment pass. “James Warren is known for his grave-robbing exploits and as one of Isaiah Rynders’s men.”

“Rynders? That is unfortunate.” Like everyone else in New York City, Walt knows plenty about Isaiah Rynders: Tammany boss of the Sixth Ward, gangster, politician. Rynders recently opened the Empire Club on Park Row and was rumored to have more power than the police—the only person with enough power in New York City to start and stop a mob. One story had it that he ripped a man’s cheek off with his forefinger just because the man owed him a few dollars. Another story had him chasing a man from a card game with a red-hot poker, and the scar across his forehead confirmed his reputation as a knife fighter. Still, Rynders is a gentleman. That is his power—he is as comfortable with the mayor as he is with, say, a grave robber.

“Did you not have a run-in with the man yourself?”

“More than one, I’m afraid,” Whitman says. “When he attempted to break up a meeting with Mr. Emerson in the Tabernacle a few months ago, I may have broken the man’s nose.”

“Did he draw his pistol?”

Walt shakes his head. “He attempted to land a blow on me, but I easily dodged it. He realized he was overmatched, stormed off, and the meeting resumed. Mr. Emerson gave a most fascinating oration on the role of the poet—”

“Mr. Rynders is a gangster and a thug!”

Walt looks into Henry’s eyes. “I will not be bullied.”

Saunders claps him on the shoulder. “You’re very brave, Mr. Whitman.”

Walt gets the joke. “Only when the fate of humanity is at stake.”

The two men catch each other staring. He has missed Henry more than he knew.

Henry breaks the moment. “You said you had more than one run-in with Rynders?”

“I may have denounced him publicly in the Aurora.”

“Holy Christ, Walt. It’s a wonder you are still alive.” Henry leans closer. “It’s a good thing I returned, so I can keep an eye on you.”

“I’m terribly glad to see you.” Walt feels awkward saying so, and he worries about becoming a public spectacle. But around them, the men of the Pewter Mug remain blissfully unaware.

“Now tell me again,” Henry says, “why all the interest in Warren?”

“I believe Abraham bought cadavers from the man.”

“And?”

“He may have a connection to Abraham’s death.”

“But how?”

“You’ve heard of the Bone Bill?”

“The proposed law that would allow medical schools to legally acquire cadavers? The one that won’t pass?”

“I was helping Abraham draft a new version that he was sure would pass,” Walt says. “His suppliers were furious. Elizabeth Blackwell confirmed as much to me only this afternoon. And it was she who discovered James Warren’s name in the ledger.”

“And in your mind, that’s motivation for Warren to kill Abraham? To protect his body-snatching business?”

“A man who kills to protect his livelihood? Certainly.”

Henry says, “I guess we need to find Warren.”

“We?”

“Given your past with Rynders, you need a lookout.”

Walt smiles. “I certainly would not want to deprive you of the experience.”

The next morning at nine o’clock, Walt Whitman and Henry Saunders arrive at the New York University Medical College, a formal three-story building with Ionic columns. Dozens of medical students in white aprons and bowler hats file in and out the front entrance. All are men.

A nurse called Mrs. Huxley directs them to the white-haired Dr. Liston. “Welcome,” he says. “Please come inside.” He leads the duo through the back door and down a long hallway to his office, a spacious corner room bright with natural light. “Mrs. Huxley?” he calls into the hallway, “tea, please?” He invites them to sit.

“On behalf of everyone at the Women’s Medical College of Manhattan,” Whitman says, “thank you for the use of your wagon.”

“Glad I could be of service,” Liston says. “In your message, you said you wanted to discuss another matter?”

Before Walt can answer, there’s a knock at the door.

Mrs. Huxley appears with tea. She’s a sturdy woman with a puckered face. “Oh, and, Doctor?”

“What is it, Mrs. Huxley?”

“They are waiting for you in surgery.”

“I’ll be there presently.”

Mrs. Huxley nods and recedes.

Liston waits for the door to close. “You were about to say.”

“Do you know James Warren?”

“He is one of the few men who supply bodies to us.”

“How does that work exactly?”

“He’s a businessman,” Liston says. “We let him know what we need, and he acquires it.”

“But grave robbing is illegal.”

“We prefer to say that the body business is just shy of legal.”

“Did Abraham Stowe know James Warren?”

“We all know him.”

Walt sips his tea. “What would someone like Mr. Warren think of Abraham Stowe’s support of the Bone Bill?”

Liston is quick to answer. “I cannot imagine Mr. Warren even knows what the Bone Bill is.”

Saunders says, “Do you think Lena killed Abraham, Dr. Liston?”

Liston looks away. “I knew Abraham before he met Lena, and her worries were justified.”

“Enough to kill him?” Henry says.

“One never knows what compels one person to kill another.”

Whitman says, “How can we find Warren?”

“It should not be difficult,” Liston says. “Grave robbers search the obituaries, and they go to the source. I find these dealings distasteful, but we must have bodies.”

Walt presses. “How do you contact him?”

“Sorry, Mr. Whitman.”

“Where does he operate?”

Liston shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“A name. A street. Anything.”

“These men may be criminals, but they provide invaluable resources to medicine, and I have to protect that.” Liston stands.

“But the Stowes were innocent.”

“My advice to you: Let Abraham and Lena rest in peace. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Walt and Henry buy a Tribune and return to the women’s college. In the dining room, they review the obituaries. From the dissection room, Whitman can hear the students’ voices as they deconstruct Lena’s corpse. That they speak in calm tones in spite of the grievous circumstances reveals the depth of their trust in Elizabeth, a sentiment he shares. Yet he still has not been able to look at Lena’s eviscerated body. He cannot bear the thought, even if it was her wish.

He and Mr. Saunders concentrate on three obituaries in today’s Tribune: thirty-five-year-old Roberto Palmero, crushed by a fire engine; nineteen-year-old Angela Pasqualini, who died in childbirth; and Maggie Runkel, a fourteen-year-old cholera victim.

Henry says, “Which one will the body snatchers dig up, do you suppose?”

Whitman doesn’t know exactly. It might be any of the three; it might be none of them. There are twenty more obituaries too, all of which are as remarkable or unremarkable as the next. “Perhaps we should ask Miss Blackwell.” He hopes Henry will volunteer so he does not have to see what they’ve done to Lena.

Saunders anticipates this. “You need to look, Walt. She was your friend.”

“That she was.” Whitman stands, takes a deep breath. “Miss Blackwell?” he calls.

He beckons her to the dining room, where they present her with their analysis of the obituaries.

“You were right about James Warren,” Walt says, “and we need to find him.”

“And you need me to identify which of these bodies is the most medically desirable.”

Saunders points out the three to her.

She reads the notices. “All of them are useful, for different reasons.”

“But if you can select only one,” Henry says.

“The pregnant woman buried with her infant would bring the highest price.”

Saunders says, “But what doctor would dissect an infant?”

Miss Blackwell smiles. “Which one wouldn’t, Mr. Saunders?”

Walt says, “We will stake out the woman’s grave, and wait for Mr. Warren.”

She continues reading. “Of course, Mr. Palmero’s lower body has been demolished by the fire engine, and who knows what we might learn from that?”

“So Mr. Palmero, then?”

“Then again,” she says, pointing to Maggie Runkel’s obituary, “what kills more people in New York than fires or childbirth?”

“Cholera,” Walt says.

“And she who cures cholera,” Elizabeth says, “shall rule the medical world.”