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.]

A Lynching

     Finally, the mob appeared to be gone. I cautiously emerged from the alley, listening and looking about for signs of violent laggards. Through the haze of smoke and dust left in the wake of the destruction, I could see the body of the stevedore propped against a tree, a charred rope about his neck. The sight was horrid, but I knew that I had to go and speak a prayer for this brave man who had given his life in defense of mine. As I drew near his form, I found myself gasping for breath. 

What I saw was the form of a man, but beaten and burned almost beyond recognition. His clothing was also charred, with what was left mostly ripped away; his right arm was hanging on by the sinews. 

What had once been his face had been pounded into a bloody, dirt-caked, burnt mass. An eyeball dangled from the left socket, and his ears had been torn off. Other parts of his body, which his trousers once covered, were unspeakably mangled. I closed my eyes and said a prayer to our Almighty God. The stevedore’s soul was surely ascended—the body was but a temporary receptacle. 

     I comforted myself with these thoughts as I moved away, even as my anxieties increased. Would I find more bloodshed before I found refuge? 

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

"Heard You That Wail?"

To the Reader: Stuck between pages of the Darkinboddy manuscript was a sheet of foolscap, folded into quarters. The upper right corner noted the city and the date as “New York. July 13, 1871.” The sheet contained a sixteen-line untitled poem, written in Melanie’s easily identifiable scrawl. Aside from a few cross-outs and notes in the margins, I have provided the content of the poem in its entirety. It is clearly influenced by the work of famed poet and novelist Frances E.W. Harper (1825-1911) and, indeed, in the bottom left margin is written “send to Mrs. Harper for advice.” At this time, Melanie would have been 14 years old.

                                 New York. July 13, 1871

Heard you that grievous wail?

The Colored Stevedore - A Reminiscence. Credit: NYHS.

A sound of such despair,

Brutal hands tore sable limbs,

Dread filled the summer air.

Saw you his courage as he fought?

I clung close to his side,

'Til thrust away by sturdy  arms,

He bade me run and hide.

The mob then came to do the deed,

With cruelty and hate,

They tore his body, limb from limb,

And sealed his deadly fate.

He braved the horrid mob for me

My bitter tears still fall,

His soul’s ascent to heaven gives

Some comfort, tho’ not all.

Rescued?

I offered a final supplication on behalf of my stevedore, then continued to make my way through the streets, heading southward, as he had instructed. Oh, reader, the sights I saw as I journeyed toward what I hoped would be safety! Many more buildings had been ransacked and were now burning, and broken glass, smashed furniture, and other debris filled the streets in the wake of the horrid mob.

     I stayed close to the buildings, scurrying from one trash heap to the next to remain undetected. Pigs now rooted about the mounds of garbage in the streets, scavenging and feasting on the carcasses of dead cats, squirrels, dogs, and rats. I came upon another trampled and bloodily beaten body of another man, this one with dried blood mixed with dirt caked inside a deep gash in his throat, his mouth agape. The grotesqueness of what I beheld was too awful for words. I looked away and continued past more riotous destruction. 

     As I advanced to the middle of the next street, I saw a policeman standing outside a gray brick building. Would he help me? I cautiously moved toward him. He turned and looked at me with astonishment. I didn’t know whether to approach, his gaze was so strange and arresting. Finally, he broke the silence.

     “You’re not a ghost,” he said. “But you well might be, all by yourself. I don’t know how you made it, but you’re here. Come inside with the others.” He led me into the building, which I later discovered was a police precinct.

     To my surprise, inside were all my companions from the orphanage! Infants, little ones like me, the older children, and my beloved teachers!     

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

  

Respite

       
The policeman ushered me toward the others, who were in various states of distress--the little ones whimpered while the older children's faces betrayed worrisome and anxious spirits. The teachers and staff attempted to calm them with soothing words as the police stood about, themselves appearing apprehensive and nervous. I saw among the multitudes little Janie Hopewell who, although two years older than me, had become my dearest companion at the orphanage. Eight year-old Janie pushed through the uneasy throng.

     “Melanie!” she cried happily as she threw her arms around me, “I knew you were here! I have been looking for you!” I stood mutely, unable to reciprocate. My arms hung limply at my sides.

     
     “What’s wrong, Melanie?” Janie inquired as she stepped back. “We are safe!” I had no reply. Miss Hinton, my teacher, then came forward. She also embraced me.

     “Oh, Melanie,” she said, “I thought we had lost you! We have been going through all the children. With you, we have all now made it safely here!” She hugged me again. Again, as with Janie, I made no response. A strange feeling had swept over me, a sudden desolation of spirit that rendered me incapable of returning their devoted embraces.

     “You are injured!” Miss Hinton exclaimed as she drew her hands, now stained with my blood, away. My frock was bloodied as well. “I will get something to dress the wound!” Miss Hinton left to get some treatment for me while Janie continued to stare. 

     “I know that it is bad out there,” she said gravely, her eyes glazed with tears. “And I heard that our home is burned to the ground.” I could say nothing in reply.

     “Oh, Melanie, what has happened to you?” she pleaded as she began to cry. I averted my eyes, and Janie moved away. Miss Hinton returned with a damp cloth and a white dressing pad, and a pair of scissors. There was no room to sit, so she began to clean and dress my wound in the midst of the crowded precinct. Because of the blood that had matted my hair, she cut away my locks so as to clean the wound properly.
  
     As she treated my injury, Miss Hinton asked me several questions, but I remained silent. Oh, I wanted so much to share the burden of the horrors that I had seen, but for some reason, I could not. 

     The young policeman who had led me inside watched as Miss Hinton plied me with questions.

     “She’s seen some sights, Miss, some terrible sights,” he interrupted, a piteous look on his face. “It is pretty bad out there.” He came over to us and whispered in her ear. I could not hear what he said, but Miss Hinton nodded as he stepped away, and she asked me no more questions. 

     Moments later, it seemed, the police station was suddenly abuzz with activity. The telegraph machine was clicking away furiously, and the police moved swiftly about, their ruddy faces creased with concern. From what I was able to put together from several bits of conversation, reports had come in that the mob was now coming our way.

      “The crowd says they are coming to sack the building,” said the policeman reading the telegraph message. I looked about. There were only a handful of policemen left, with one superior, whom the others had addressed as “sergeant.” The mob I had seen numbered dozens of people who, by now, might be in the hundreds.

     How could a few policemen contain such an ungodly and diabolical crowd intent on destroying more than 200 hundred helpless children?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Hiding Out

     The police protecting the Twentieth had greatly dwindled in number, as many had been sent to respond to reports of looting and arson. The report of the mob's nearness apparently was a rumor, as it remained quiet. As darkness arrived, more Negroes, some beaten and bloody, made their way to the station, which was the only refuge from the mob. With so many of us seeking sanctuary and safety, the station became extraordinarily crowded; conditions were such that we had insufficient room to move about. 

     The littlest orphans continued to whimper, and the infants began to cry ceaselessly for want of milk or other nourishment. Our guardians, however, were somehow able to appropriate meager rations for us, for which we were grateful. Although we were young, it seems to my memory that we discerned the great danger we were in; however, we comported ourselves in such a way as to not increase the distress among the littler children. 

     On Tuesday afternoon, awaking from a fitful nap in the tiny space I had found under a desk near the telegraph machine, which had been clicking furiously throughout the day, I peered out. The police were speaking in low, yet harsh, tones.

     “They’re hanging them from trees and lampposts, sir,” the young policeman whispered, reading from the telegraph machine.

     “My God,” the sergeant replied, distress choking his words. “It seems that they want to just wipe the blacks from the face of the earth! Well, that will end, as the military is now coming to assist.” Just then, another message came in. After reading it, the young policeman looked at his sergeant. His face was ashen.

     “The mob has defeated the military over on Forty-Fourth Street, sir,” he said, “and it is heading this way.” The sergeant stood. His formerly grave face now had on it a look of stern resolution.

     “Send the following,” he ordered. The young policeman began tapping a new message into the telegraph machine:

     “WE-EXPECT-TO-BE-ATTACKED-SHALL-WE-FIGHT-TO-THE-BITTER-END?” 

     The two stood in solemn silence. A moment later, the machine tapped out a brief response. The young policeman leaned over and read it, then turned to his superior.

     “FIGHT.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Fight

    

  “FIGHT.” The young policeman repeated the singly-worded message, which initiated an immediate response as the station house became a hive of frenetic, yet orderly, activity. All the civilians were herded toward the rear of the building. I remained hidden, curled up under the desk, as our defenders began to barricade the windows and doors, using boards, screens, bars, furniture, and materials of every kind to block the entrances to the station.

     After securing the building to their satisfaction, the officers, whose extreme fatigue could be seen clearly on their faces, stood in silence as they awaited the inevitable. The momentary quietude was unsettling. 

     Suddenly, the riotous mob descended upon the station all at once, smashing at the barricaded windows and battering the main entrance door in an attempt to break it down and murder us. As the crowd hurled stones and screamed horrible epithets while battering at the openings, I thought I could discern the voices of children among them, screaming the same horrible oaths as the adults.

     Charge after charge the mob made against the station. One policeman warned that the marauders would try to set the premises on fire, just as they had destroyed the orphanage!  

[TO BE CONTINUED.]  

Defending the Station

Blacks fleeing the violence of  the white mobs, which they feared would come to Brooklyn,  sought

Van der Veer Mill in the City of Brooklyn.

safety inside the windmill at the Van der Veer Farm, located in what is now the Flatlands section.

“They’ll not take this station!” yelled the sergeant, his face beet-red with anger as he and another policeman moved more furniture up against the door to repel the rapacious and lawless mob. The younger policeman continued to tap messages onto the telegraph machine. Huddled under the desk, I prayed to our most merciful God to give our protectors the strength to fend them off. They made two more charges at the station, but the police had secured the windows and doors well enough to keep them out. By and by, the noise began to subside. The police remained at the barricades for several more hours; they peered apprehensively through the small cracks between the boarded windows. Finally, the sergeant held up his arm.

     “Okay, men,” he said, “it looks like the cowardly devils have gone. Let’s try to get some order back in here.” The police moved the barricades away from the front entrance, while keeping the boards in front of the windows.

     “Sir,” said the young policeman, “it looks like they’re moving southward. Mulberry Street says they’ve burned the Tribune, and they tried to attack the arsenal. They’ve shot some of the ringleaders, though.” It remained quiet at the station, and as night came upon us again, more of the aged and feeble made their way to the safety of the station.

     I learned that the fires were raging all over the city, and that federal troops had now been brought in to quell the violence, which had now spread to the city of Brooklyn, to Staten Island, to parts of the Bronx, and to Jamaica in Queens County. Would all of New York become enveloped in the conflagration?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

Swiftly Through the Streets

     
    

     Much to our relief, the rioters did not return. The federal troops apparently were successful in their attempts to contain and stifle the insurgency, although the telegraph tapped continuously throughout the next two days. The station remained crowded to overflowing, and conditions were as best as we could hope for, under the unfortunate circumstances.

     Early on Thursday, we learned that we were to be taken by ferry to a place called Blackwell’s Island, where we would be sheltered until a permanent home could be found. That afternoon, surrounded by police, we were led out of the station house. We moved cautiously, yet swiftly, through the streets to a ferry landing to await a boat which would take us to the island.

     Those days and nights we spent sheltered at the police station were among the darkest and terrifying in my memory. How could I have known the terrors that awaited me?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

Blackwell's Island

     We were loaded onto the ferry which was to take us to sanctuary on Blackwell’s Island. The river’s swift current seemed extremely dangerous. I had never been on a ferry boat, and certainly had not seen the broad expanse of New York City’s piers and waterways. The wharves were filled with cotton bales, food staples, and other pallets of cargo. From this vantage point, I saw the ironworks, breweries, coal manufacturing plants, and other signs of commerce and industry. 

The Prison at Blackwell's Island.

     I thought, too, of the violence I had seen. Who would bury my stevedore and all the other butchered and battered innocents who, but for an accident of color, would have lived peaceable and Godly lives? I said a silent prayer as the ferry boat prepared to dock.

     

     Turning my attention to Blackwell’s Island, a disquieting feeling came over me. Something about the gray brick buildings and gray stone lighthouse at one end seemed eerily familiar. Had I been there before?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

The Alms House

Female Alms House at Blackwell's Island.

     As we approached the island, the massive gray buildings grew larger and grimmer. The largest
southward structure looked like the castles I had seen in pictorials, granite gray, with long arched windows giving it an unusually forbidding appearance. I could see that the island was decorated with manicured lawns and neat walkways. It was quiet as the ferry docked. 

     Looking northward, my eyes came to rest upon an odd-shaped building, several stories high, with two smaller oblong structures connected to it at right angles. Despite the strangeness of its octagonal shape, this building possessed none of the overall gloomy aspect of the southernmost building. Was this to be my new home?

[TO BE CONTINUED.]