When Walt wakes the next morning, it is the absolute stillness that surprises him. The stillness is more than the absence of sound; it comprises everything around him—the vacant apartment, Henry’s clothing that he will never wear again, the frigid morning air, the absence of Walt’s own belongings burned up in the college fire, the unperturbed snow rolling softly from the sky. He lies in bed, focusing on his breath. He holds it in and takes in the stillness of his chest. This is what he would look like dead. Images of Henry Saunders’s body flash in his mind, and tears spring to his eyes.
Walt composes himself and glances about the room, which is still in shambles. He knows Henry would prefer it tidied up, and this is enough to get him out of bed. Shivering, he removes his pants and white shirt and searches through Henry’s wardrobe for fresh clothing. He slips on a blue banyan, and the cold silk sends a chill through him.
Next, he builds a fire in the woodstove and sits on the floor next to it to warm himself. Watching the fire calls to mind the night before, the women’s college up in flames, the students trapped upstairs. He thinks of all that he lost in the fire, but nothing compares to the loss of Henry.
He stares out the window, fighting to retain the image of Henry Saunders in better times, but it has already begun to fade. Around Walt are the objects of Henry’s life: his walking cane, desk, and books, all physical proof that he was once here and is now gone.
Walt sniffs the banyan collar—Henry’s smell lingers in these things, but that too will wane. And then comes the awful realization that philosophy and religion, despite their explanations and promises, will not bring Henry back to him.
What he knows with a surety is that Henry’s body has been transported to Barclay’s workroom and, once the autopsy has been completed, will be shipped to the Saunders’s farm in northern Manhattan for burial, where Henry’s corporeal self will spiral outward through the earth forever.
But what of the soul? The question unfurls the unknowable darkness before him. Deism suggests that Walt will have to reason out his own belief in an afterlife, and Elias Hicks taught that the afterlife is now—neither doctrine brings any relief to Walt Whitman in his moment of crisis. Henry Saunders is gone from this life, which means Walt will have to live today, and every day thereafter, without him.
He pushes himself to his feet, the cold air rushing up through the open end of the banyan. Books go back on shelves, pans return to cupboards. He lifts the desk from where it lays on its side, and he folds the clothing that has been scattered on the floor. He folds his own dirty clothing, and this is when he sees Father Allen’s overcoat—a reminder of what the priest did for him, a reminder of his own status as a wanted man, the sole survivor of an elaborate cover-up.
He hangs the overcoat, and Abby Runkel’s poem flutters to the ground. He picks it up, reads:
I need you, sir, to find my sister
Who left this earth too soon
God wants her to come home to him
But needs her body too
I cry to think of her in little pieces
all about the room
Please bring her home, Mr. Whitman,
Bring her to me soon.
Walt smiles and lays the poem on the windowsill. Quite something from someone so young. He wants to help her find her sister, but the sad truth is, it is probably too late for Maggie’s body.
The knock at the door startles him. He tiptoes across the room, carefully removes the pistol from Father Allen’s coat. He stares at it as if he’s never seen it before. Another knock, louder, more determined.
Should he call out or just answer it? He steadies himself with deep breaths, and then a voice from the other side of the door calls out: “Walt? Mr. Whitman? Are you in there?”
The voice belongs not to Samuel Clement or Silas Petty but to a woman. Of course, either man might be with this woman, he reminds himself.
“Who is there?” he finally says.
“Miss Zacky, from the college.”
He wipes his face with the banyan sleeve, the light blue silk absorbing his sweat. “Are you alone?”
“Yes. Elizabeth told me where I might find you,” she says. “She’s been charged with Mr. Saunders’s death.”
Walt opens the door, pistol at the ready.
Marie Zakrzewska is alone. Her red hair is a mess, and her face tinted with charcoal streaks. Her dress too is covered in soot. “She’s in jail.”
“But the last time I saw her, she was fine,” Walt says. “I was with the sheriff when he rescued you from the burning college.”
“Yes,” she says, “and we are all grateful.”
Whitman continues. “When I left, she was with the students outside, with you—you all were being cared for by Dr. Liston.”
Miss Zacky nods. “After you found Mr. Saunders’s body, the sheriff arrested her.”
Walt shakes his head. “But—”
“Lizzy found your friend in the same position as Lena found Abraham. Whoever did it, cut him open with a bone saw to make it look as if we had dissected him. Ridiculous, of course.”
“Samuel Clement.”
Miss Zacky nods. “That’s what Lizzy said.”
Walt is suddenly aware of the flimsy banyan, and pulls it closed to cover his exposed chest. “Please come in.” He steps aside to let her pass, then does a quick check of the hallway for any signs of someone following her. He sees none. “We aren’t safe here,” he says. “Where are the other students?”
The question makes her cry. “They’ve all gone home,” she says. “They’re terrified, and who can blame them?”
“But you stayed.”
“I have to help Lizzy.”
Whitman excuses himself so he can change clothing. With her back turned, he puts on a pair of Henry’s dark trousers and a white shirt, a fresh pair of socks and his boots. Then he brews tea and cooks eggs. “So what do we know?”
Miss Zacky tosses him the morning’s Herald, and while she eats, he reads:
REPORTER MURDERED!
The dissected body of Mr. Henry Saunders was discovered last night by a medical college mob at the Women’s Medical College of Manhattan. Reports are that the body was being used under the guise of medical training to another purpose. Saunders, readers might recall, was the author of an article exposing the evils of these medical schools and their ungodly practice of human dissection. City officials surmise that the murder was the college’s answer to that article and a warning to others who might have more traditional beliefs about the human body and its sanctity in the eyes of God.
Miss Elizabeth Blackwell, who was alone with Mr. Saunders when he died, was then interrogated, but denied all knowledge of the murder. She was watched, and later removed a vial of arsenic from her dress. Suspicion of foul play was then for the first time entertained, and the Coroner, Dr. Kenneth Barclay, determined upon a post mortem examination that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain a large quantity of arsenic. The powder taken from Miss Blackwell was also tested, with like result; and the whiskey bottle from which Mr. Saunders had drunk during the night was also found to contain a quantity of the same drug. Miss Blackwell was arrested, examined, and committed to prison, to await the action of the Grand Jury.
Local officials are concerned about the possibility of more mob violence. A crowd has gathered outside the Tombs, where Miss Blackwell is being held, demanding speedy justice. The demonstrations are peaceful as of this printing, but city officials and law enforcement are keenly aware that unless something is done with Miss Blackwell, the situation has the potential to worsen.
Whitman sets the paper on the table and watches Miss Zacky eat. She senses his eyes on her and looks up.
“It’s happening all over again,” he says.
She doesn’t say anything.
“How is Miss Blackwell holding up?” he says. “Have you seen her?”
“She’s strong,” Miss Zacky says, “but she’s terrified.”
Walt shakes his head. “Of course she is.”
“We have to stop this, Mr. Whitman. We can’t let it happen again.”
“The crowd . . . how big is it?”
“Maybe a thousand, and growing.”
Walt says, “They want a lynching.” He thinks for a moment. “We know who killed Henry. We have to present evidence that forces city leaders to acknowledge Clement’s guilt. Everything else is irrelevant.”
“We couldn’t do it for Lena. What can we do that we didn’t already try?”
What indeed? Walt thinks. He stares at the newspaper, traces the perforated top edge to its smooth sides to its black type to the name of its editor, James Gordon Bennett. “That’s it.” Whitman points to the name. “We need to put out a reward.”
“What good will that do?”
“As they did for the Mary Rogers case.”
“But they found the wrong person.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t work this time,” Walt says.
“But we don’t have any money.”
“We can raise the money by forming a committee of safety like James Bennett did for the Rogers case. He knew the only way to deal with an ineffective law enforcement was to bait the public with a reward, and if conducted in a public forum, city officials have no choice but to follow through when someone comes forth with evidence.”
Miss Zacky nods. “Whom do we ask for help?”
Walt thinks for a moment. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Bennett. He’ll probably say no, but I see no other option at the moment.” He stands. “But first we need to find another place to stay. It’s not safe here.”
She rises to meet him.
Whitman sees that this is difficult for her. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t leave his office until Mr. Bennett agrees to help us.”
She musters a smile.
“Do you have money?”
She nods.
“Good. Get a room at Sweeny’s Hotel, and I’ll meet you after my meeting with Bennett, bearing good news.”
She doesn’t move.
“We will succeed,” Walt says, trying to convince himself as the words come out of his mouth.
“I believe in you,” she says as she leaves.
Walt watches at the window to make sure no one is following. He sits at Henry’s desk to gather his thoughts. Bennett will be a tough sell for sure, but this is their best chance, given the exigency. He glances about the room. He might not return and so he wants to record it in his mind. Under the bed, he finds a leather attaché, which he stuffs with a couple of shirts, some socks, and an extra pair of trousers. That’s all that will fit. He picks up Henry’s walking cane, then scans the room one last time before he attempts to get a meeting with James Gordon Bennett.