THE CHILDREN'S CRUSADE

   “I despise the looks of a novel. The cursed infernal things, I can’t bear the sight of one. They are a curse to everyone that reads one. I never could bear the looks of them. They are a pack full of lies. They are a store House of lies. I never take any comfort in reading them. Give me history of some great and good man who is laboring for the welfare of his country, like Wm. H. Seward, who is fighting against the world of enemies every day for the promotion and benefit of his country, and laboring with a strong arm to crush vice and crime and morality under feet of the world. That is such a book which I love to read. Novels are books that will bring many a young man to a gloomy cell, and many a weeping mother’s graves.”- Rob Reed, The Life and Adventures of a Haunted Convict copyright 2016

  I couldn’t agree more with Reed. That flawed, “great and good man,” Henry Seward keeps me on track, digging in the archives, coming back for more. Resisting fictionalization and extraneous dialog, I’ve relied upon Seward to anchor me in historical time and space. But Henry has his limitations in the tight weave. Historical figures offer only so much insight as to what is really going on in the folds. Men and women of note are very conscious as to what they leave behind for posterity. The bonfires of the vanities destroys much in their flames. I’d rather take a forensic approach; adding a little of Reed’s sprinkle cheese in the process.

    When a body drops at the end of a rope, not only does the neck break, the heart stops pumping, bladder and bowels evacuate. The brain, unable to receive the necessary blood flow, ceases to function. Death follows. Life, as we know it, ends with one last, violently escaping loud breath. Some see this as the soul escaping, drifting off to heaven. My grandfather told me he heard a similar death rattle when his wife, Maude S. Miller died (after suffering from cancer) lying on the living room couch on Boyd Street. As my old friend Carlo McCormick put it after cajoling him to read Part One, “…now having enjoyed unwarranted and unwelcome familiarity with your dubious ancestry I expect you will have undue longevity as long as you keep away from the hangman’s noose.” We’ll see.  

    I watched both my parents die on Newgate Road in Connecticut (just down from the prison ruins) but was not there at the exact moment of their passing. I’m not looking forward to hearing that last gasp from any loved one, but I know it will come; unless I go first. I’d happily carry the burden of antecedent in my family and congregation. Phantasmagoric faith won’t help any of us. I wish I could report back. The novel? “I never take any comfort in reading them.”    

   Adult prisons were not sufficient to address the growing, “degenerate labor force,” leading progressive societies to come up with specialized institutions that would be able to control and exploit this untapped resource—the criminalized youth. Like in adult prisons, self sustainability and profit were the clearly stated motivations and goals. Answering the demand for servants on ships and farms, The House of Refuge was first and foremost a private enterprise, a slave to the bottom line. It existed, not unlike today’s private prisons, as a pneumatic pipeline, closely connected to the state and the courts, supplied with (and supplying) a seemingly inexhaustible stream of nonconsensual, unpaid, child labor—for a substantial fee.

    And the Seward family was more than familiar with The New York House of Refuge and the product they provided. A document dated October 7, 1839 addressed to Mr. George Washington Seward (Henry’s brother) from The House of Refuge, states: “Sir, We have consented to bind Emma Jane Beusel one of the children under our care in the House of Refuge, to you, as an apprentice, pursuant to powers given to us by an act of the Legislature of this state…..Great pains are taken to impress on the children committed to the House of Refuge, a love of truth, to give them religious instruction, habits of order and industry, and to teach them to be respectful and obedient…..” It was signed by Superintendent David Terry. 

      

      As far as I know Austin Reed never met his quixotic hero William Henry Seward, but that was not the case with Jack Hodges or William Freeman. Henry Seward and Jack had, by now, a long history. In Auburn, they lived only blocks from one another; Jack in his cell and Henry in the Miller mansion. 

    William Freeman grew up in New Guinea, a short walk from Elijah Miller’s Auburn estate, during the same time period Seward lived in Auburn. Austin Reed was also an inmate at Auburn Prison during William Freeman’s incarceration for horse theft. They both had interacted with Captain Tyler. But stealing a horse is not what William Freeman is known for. William Freeman would retain the services of William H. Seward for a different offense, their fates becoming inexorably intwined.The radical plea of “not guilty by reason of insanity,” would be entered on Freeman’s behalf, by Hon. William H. Seward, esq. This would propel the ex. Governor Seward back into the public eye and national politics, and Freeman into legal history. This undeniable history by circumstance and place is born out through prison records, court transcripts, letters, newspaper documentation and rivers of blood. I’m with Rob Reed. The truth is just as unbelievable and riveting as any fictionalized novel.

    There are no photographic mugshots of Jack Hodges or William Freeman. No image at all (photographic or otherwise) exists of Austin Reed—only descriptions of color, height, weight and scars. His physicality is nothing but data. Both Jack Hodges and William Freeman fare better. In strikingly similar depictions, these men are drawn by artists, as they sit for their portraits, chained in their cells. There’s no camera involved in either, so Barthes would not be interested. It would not “prick” him. But to me these sketches are fascinating. The vernacular engravings are of two confined black men, chained like wild beasts, yet each expressionless. Both depictions contain the common trope of iron chains, stones and giant rings screwed to the granite wall and floor. The criminals are restrained and subdued. There’s no danger.

    While in his more casual repose, Jack Hodges is learning to read the bible, held compliantly by Rev. Jared Curtis. Hodges had neatly pulled his head from the Irish hangman’s noose in 1819 and survived ten years in two of America’s most notorious prisons. He looks good considering. Jack can now relax and allow the manipulation by pen and pulpit to continue. Let the artists and clergy do their job.

      For William Freeman the circumstances are radically different and the engraving strikes a different mood. Sitting on an upturned wooden wash tub, his right leg shackled, attached to a heavy iron ring pinned to the floor, Bill Freeman has just escaped lynching by an angry mob. The newspaper artist, knowing he has but one chance to get it right, sketches away, attempting to capture the moment. Freeman’s right arm is injured and in a sling, supported by his good left hand. His nose is long and hair curly. He’s clean shaven. But, as hard as the artist tried, you can’t read the look on Bill’s face. What’s he thinking? What’s he done?   

  

“By Jove,” said McGollin, “didn’t Rob stand them cats good. Twenty-five lashes right on the bare back, and never made a bulge.”

“When the old cat,” said Mike, “was scratching in his back pretty deep, he had to sing out enough.”

“And you, Mike,” said I, “and how did you stand the darling little pus….?”