The NYC Draft Riots - Remembering the Conflagration

Today marks the 160th anniversary of the burning of the Colored Orphan Asylum in New York City. On Monday, July 13, 1863 and continuing through July 16, the worst riots in American history occurred—the New York City Draft Riots. Below is an image of the Girls Play Area from 1861, before the riot. A few other images of the children and workers, ca. 1860-61 are available for viewing online.

Who Was Melanie Darkinboddy?

     On July 13, 2013, the papers of Melanie Darkinboddy* were anonymously delivered to my home. 

     Contained in an ancient, cracked leather satchel were six copybooks, ca. 1870s, and ninety-three 20th century composition books, the earliest one dating from 1926 and the last one with a final entry dated May 16, 1954. Written in a tightly-scrawled long-hand, the papers were verified as having been written by the hand of Melanie Darkinboddy.  

     At the bottom of the satchel was a small drawstring burlap pouch, with a narrow, cylindrical glass tube inside. I opened the tube and found a thin rolled-up sheet of slightly frayed, yellowing paper (which I later discovered were several sheets rolled together).

      In unraveling those tiny sheets of paper, I have also begun to slowly uncover the mystery of Melanie Darkinboddy, the once prominent but now forgotten Grand Doyenne of Harlem, whose Baked by a Negro Cookie Company** operated from 1896 to 1931. The new interest in Melanie's life and work also prompted a renaissance for cookie company, which ran under new ownership from 2012-2017. The long-awaited web publication of her unusual memoir, which I have entitled The Life and Strange, Surprising Adventures of Melanie Darkinboddy, An American Negro: A Tale of Race, Cookies, and Theft,* has been a labor of love. The first part of this chronicle, much of which I have been reconstructing from rough notes, sketches, and jottings, is being recorded here in serial form. 

Rebecca

*Melanie Darkinboddy is a fictional character and The Life and Strange, Surprising Adventures of Melanie Darkinboddy, An American Negro: A Tale of Race, Cookies, and Theft (with excerpts published here) is a work of fiction.

**Baked by a Negro Cookie Company was later renamed The Darkinboddy Bakery.
 

Humble Beginnings

Melanie Darkinboddy was born on July 16, 1857. Her earliest memories, however, begin with the conflagration that engulfed the Colored Orphans Asylum during the New York City Drafts Riots of July, 1863, three days before she turned six years old. In a sort of “cover letter,” dated May 16, 1954, Melanie Darkinboddy sets forth, in a few brief lines, a prefatory note wherein she makes apologies for interstices and other disruptions of the narrative: 

Dear Reader,

Herewith begin my reminiscences of long-ago occurrences in my life. I was but a child when many of the earliest events took place; I trust that an editor will repair my crude narrations in a style that will render them readable and engaging.

     There was a little party on that day, with teacakes and lemonade set out for those of us girls who had birthdays that month. As it happened, I was the only foundling in the place at that time with a July birthday. Oh, I felt so special! I had received a pretty little red, white, and blue cup and ball game from my favorite teacher, Miss Eliza Hinton.

     We had finished our lessons and were just then eating the little cakes when one of the other school matrons came running into the playroom, her eyes wide with panic. She hurriedly whispered to Miss Hinton, who made us stand immediately and form a line. As we were moved to the rear of the building with great alacrity, I suddenly began hearing awful sounds—hideous screaming, the sounds of shattering glass, breaking wood, and explosive blasts. We were all quite frightened, and some of the little ones began to bawl. The mistresses "shushed" them and brought us all toward a back door that led to the rear grounds of the school.

     Just then, I remembered that I had left my cup and ball in our playroom. It was the only gift I had gotten, and I was determined to retrieve it before escaping. I managed to slip into a bottom cupboard by the rear door when one of the mistresses turned her back, and hid there. As soon as she had gone through the back door, I crawled out in an attempt to reclaim my toy. 

     Suddenly, I heard a loud splintering noise behind me, followed by a loud bang. The doors had all come crashing down, and I glimpsed angry, red-faced screaming whites spilling into the school wielding rude clubs and knives. I squeezed myself back into the cupboard before they caught sight of me.

     Their wild shrieks filled the air. 'Burn the d___ed monkeys! Kill the abolitionists!' The screams and rough language filled me with terror. I knew that if they were to discover my hiding place, they would tear me to bits!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

Escape!

     I could hear the mob screaming as it ransacked the place. Cupboard doors and drawers were being opened and shut, with the clatter of silverware and plates being tossed about creating a frightful din as the mob tore the place apart. Footsteps passed right outside the cupboard where I had concealed myself. I could scarcely breathe. Oh, please, do not let me be discovered!

     Moments later, the clamor subsided. My thoughts were fixed on escaping. I dared not attempt a return to the playroom to retrieve my cup and ball. Trepidation led the way as I emerged from my little hiding place. I slunk fearfully toward the back door through which the others had fled as thick smoke suddenly began to fill the air. My eyes blurred with stinging tears as I made my way through the door and into the backyard. 

     Once outside, a swift glance back caused me to shudder with horror. The asylum was on fire! Flames had erupted in all the windows, resulting in an enormous and terrifying conflagration. I turned, and found myself face to face with a being upon whose countenance was a look of pure evil. It took but an instant for me to grasp that it was a woman! Her red face was filled with rage as she wielded a charred brick. 

     “I’ve got one!” she shouted as I bolted toward the back fence in an effort to catch up with the others. As I clambered to the other side of the fence to escape the madwoman who was now giving chase, something hit me in the back of my head. I fell to the ground, the fence now separating me from my tormentor. Raising myself up, dazed, I stumbled forward. Blood came away when I touched my hand to my skull. 

     I looked around me and realized that I was utterly alone. My home was aflame, the conflagration quickly engulfing the entire structure. I stood a moment, mesmerized by the awesomeness of its swift and total destruction. Where had the others escaped to? How would I find them?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

The Pursuit

"The Riots in New York: Destruction of the Coloured Orphan Asylum."

     I stood, trembling, as the all-consuming blaze destroyed the only home I had ever known. Thick streams of black smoke poured through every window of the asylum, with bright orange and yellow flames licking like the ferocious tongues of wild animals at the blackened air. A sudden thought caused me to shudder. Had all the others gotten away safely? Was there some other child who, like me, had gone back to retrieve a favorite toy? Fearsome shouts quickly pulled me from my reverie. 

     “There! There she is!”  The crazed, red-faced woman was still after me, but she now had seemingly hundreds of companions in evil. Some were carrying items of furniture that I recognized as having belonged to the asylum—small desks, chairs, and footstools—while others had silverware, crockery, vases, lanterns, shoes, and clothing. Still others had clubs, sticks, rocks, and stones that looked as if they had been torn from the very streets! How they were able to transport their loot and still move so swiftly, I did not know.

     Destruction surrounded me, with smashed doors and broken glass now added to the rubbish that filled the streets. I ran as the frenzied mob gave chase. The dense smoke from the fire gave me cover as I fled.  Far ahead, I suddenly saw a colored man disappear into an alleyway—he, too, was trying to escape. Moments later, I ducked into the same alley and found the man crouched behind some trash barrels. He looked like one of the stevedores who sometimes came to the asylum to visit and play with us. A stream of blood poured from his forehead as he tried to staunch its flow with a grimy kerchief.

     “Help me, please, papa,” I sobbed. He looked up at me and quickly pulled me to him.

     “Shhh,” he whispered as the sounds of the mob became louder as they approached. My benefactor put his hand over my mouth and held me so closely that I could hear the fearsome beating of his heart.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

Death of a Stevedore

     The gangs of marauders continued to yell loathsome oaths as they went about destroying everything in their path. The smoke that had enveloped the entire area apparently kept us hidden, as they did not enter the alleyway. As the shouts died down, my protector loosened his grip and looked at me. I saw that his clothes were covered with blood.

     “Are you an orphan?” he asked in a whisper, his gentle eyes filled with sympathy. I nodded, my eyes blurring with tears. I hugged him tightly. He petted me for a moment with soothing words.

“We’ve got to make our way to the precinct,” he said, “that is where we can find protection.” He crawled stealthily toward the opening of the alleyway and peered out. He motioned for me to follow, grasping my hand firmly as we made our way out of the alley.

     Inclining our bodies against the looted building structures, we progressed through several blocks. We were about to turn down another when we were spotted!

     What appeared to be dozens of young ruffians tore after us, shouting curses of “nigger” and “ape” and “abolitionists” as they attempted to chase us down. I tried to keep up, but my legs ached and my chest burned.

     My protector abruptly pulled me up onto his back and carried me, sprinting through the streets, vaulting over the mounds of trash and other refuse heaped onto the roads as bricks, rocks, and other projectiles flew past us.

     Suddenly, my guardian stumbled and we both fell to the ground. A huge stone, flecked with blood, rested next to where he lay, stunned, a swelling wound protruding from behind his ear. I rubbed his cheeks in a vain effort to awaken him. The mob's shrieks grew closer.

     “Please, papa, you must wake up!” I cried. His eyes opened slightly and his breathing was shallow as he tried to speak.

     “I wish I were your papa, little one,” he whispered with a weak smile, “you have shown yourself brave. You must make your way to the precinct.”

     “You must come with me,” I implored. He shuddered and shook his head.

     “It is three more blocks south. Just keep straight on this path.” I could hear the mob—I glanced back and saw that the ruffians, who were in the lead, were only half a street away. The rocks continued to be thrown. Suddenly, I saw another great crowd coming from the other direction. It, too, was shrieking horrible epithets.

     “You must go now!” said my protector. “Go! Now!” I didn’t want to leave him. I hugged him tightly until, using all the meager strength that remained, he extricated me from his body and shoved me forward. The mob was barely a hundred feet away!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Cobbled Streets of Blood

    “Come, papa!” I pleaded once more with the injured stevedore. He shook his head as the blood continued to flow from the wound behind his ear. I could see that he had weakened even more.

     “Save yourself, little one, if you can,” he moaned. “It is two blocks south. Go, please. Let my last thoughts be of your certain safety!” His eyes told me that he could not move from the spot. The hordes came nearer. I turned and ran as fast as I could in the direction in which the stevedore had pointed, but the haze caused by the destruction was too thick for me to see through clearly, even as it also obscured me from the mob’s sight.

     I found refuge behind a barrel in another alleyway. I peeked out and saw that the mob was upon him. His unearthly howls of agony as they mercilessly attacked him reverberated in the air. I prayed God’s mercy for his swift release. Their shouts of delight as they literally tore his body apart were the most ungodly sounds I had ever heard in this Christian nation! From my hiding place, I watched as two men lifted the beaten, trampled, and naked body that once held the soul of the stevedore. I shook uncontrollably as the mob finally moved back to gaze upon their hellish achievement. I squeezed my eyes shut in an unsuccessful attempt to hold back my tears.

     Oh, reader, if I could only erase what my eyes had seen! I said another prayer for the stevedore as the crowd began to disperse, no doubt looking for another victim. I tightened my body into a little ball behind the barrel and tried not to breathe as they passed by the alleyway.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]