we were on a straightaway before passing the bag through the back window to a woman in the rear car.
As we approached the block where we’d picked up the children that morning, Alec sounded a long blast on the engine’s whistle. Even before the bus stopped, Colin jumped off and climbed up behind Alec on the engine. A crowd formed as people drifted out of alleys and buildings or came from nearby streets to find out what the noise was.
From my position kneeling on the floor by the wounded, I could see Colin through the front windows of the bus. He took off his hat and waved it for emphasis as he spoke in a dramatic oratorical fashion that wouldn’t have been out of place in a revivalist’s pulpit. “My good friends and fellow citizens,” he began. “We hoped to do some good today by using our machine to take your children out for an innocent picnic and a chance to play in fresh air and sunshine.
“But the British wouldn’t allow that. British troops fired on your children!” He paused to allow the gasps of shock and outraged shouts to work their way through the crowd before continuing. “We’re returning the healthy children to you. We’ll take the wounded to our doctors. If your children are among the wounded, you may come with us.”
He tapped on the window, and Lizzie told the uninjured children to go home. Anxious parents boarded the bus, though there were far fewer parents than wounded children.
Colin addressed what was left of the crowd. “Those cowards who fear children are marching up Broadway even now to remind us how mighty they are. After we tend the wounded, we’ll meet them at Eighth Street to make them account for what they’ve done. Come with us now if you want to make your voice heard.”
A few of the older boys boarded the bus, and several young women and a couple of young men followed them. I spotted Mick on the engine, waving a red kerchief over his head. The rest of the people scurried back into their buildings and alleyways. Colin jumped off the engine and boarded the bus as it began moving uptown again. “Humph,” he snorted. “What a bunch of mindless sheep.”
“Colin!” Lizzie chided, gesturing with her head toward the “mindless sheep” who were sitting with their wounded children—children who had been wounded for the Mechanics’ political display.
The bus slowed again as we neared Lizzie’s neighborhood. Lizzie grabbed my arm and said, “We must go, now.” Colin swung me off the bus after her, and I let her drag me down the street toward her boardinghouse.
Once inside her room, Lizzie shoved me into a chair, took a towel off a hook, poured water over it, and wiped my face. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting you cleaned up.”
“But why?”
She scrubbed the blood off my hands. “We need a reporter on the scene who can blend in as an ordinary citizen. You’re our best bet for that.” She leaned back to check her work, plucked a bit of hay out of my hair, and gave me a wry grin. “I doubt the soldiers will forget the mad redhead who harangued them. You’re less memorable.”
“Thank you very much,” I said dryly.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re respectable. No one would imagine you to be a troublemaker. You look every inch the governess—and don’t you dare take offense at that.”
She attempted to smooth my hair, but gave that up as a lost cause. “Your dress doesn’t look too bad, and the blood doesn’t show on the dark blue, so you shouldn’t stand out as someone who was on the Battery today. Well, without that.” She removed the Mechanics insignia from my bodice, dropped it in my bag, then handed me the bag and said, “Now, head for Broadway and Eighth. Watch what happens and write an article tonight. We’ll get it from you in the morning.”
She went downstairs with me, pushed me toward Broadway, then ran uptown. Too exhausted to run, I settled for a brisk walk. It was only a block to Broadway, and there didn’t seem to be anything happening yet.
The crowd grew denser as I approached Eighth Street, and the signs of protest became evident. Some people held sticks with red paint-smeared white cloth tied to them. Others held placards printed with the words “The Blood of Our Children.” The ink was still wet, and men moved through the crowd, distributing signs.