Victory with Valor

By Barbara Robison

History comes to life in this exciting story of seemingly insurmountable challenges against a backdrop of social, sexual and political transformation.

Victory with Valor is inspired by the life, courage, commitment, and grassroots strategy of Carrie Chapman Catt, the remarkable leader of the women's suffrage movement in America.

 

"...captures the essence and excitement of the Women's Suffrage Movement. This poignant debut novel marks the 100th anniversary of women's right to vote…portrays the passion of the historical movement that changed women's lives forever."—Cynthia Kumanchik, author of Automaton Nation

 

When Carrie, a thirteen-year-old Iowa farm girl, discovered her mother couldn't vote in the 1872 presidential election her purpose in life became clear: Women should be allowed to vote. 

 

In the years that followed she was the only female in her graduating class at Iowa State Agricultural College before moving on to become a law clerk, then a teacher, and in 1885 became the first female superintendent of schools in Mason City, Iowa.

 

Carrie was eventually invited to speak to the National American Woman Suffrage Association, and even succeeded Susan B. Anthony as its president. 

 

This smart, cunning, persistent woman met with kings and queens, Mahatmas Gandhi, Mussolini, and other powerful world figures at a time when the fight for women's equality was just beginning. 

Victory with Valor makes a thought-provoking book club choice and the perfect gift for any inspiring, strong women and young adults in your life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Robison
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201798901

Book preview

1

1886

CALIFORNIA BOUND

The westbound train belched clouds of black smoke, fouling the brilliant blue sky. The train’s engine creaked and shook, straining to climb from the valley floor into the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

A poised, attractive young lady, with intense blue eyes, sat by herself in a Pullman car, trying to read. Concentration became almost impossible. On her way to see her husband, stricken with typhoid fever in California, her mind wandered. Leo, it won’t be long and we’ll be together. Oh, why can’t this train go faster?

The conductor, affable, middle-aged, with a good-sized paunch, made his way down the aisle and stopped when he came to the young lady.

Mrs. Chapman?

Carrie glanced up from her book. Yes. I’m Carrie Chapman. I have a telegram for you received at the last stop. He leaned over the adjacent empty seat and handed it to her.

Thank you. Maybe Leo is better. She opened the telegram and read the message. Her ivory complexion turning a drab white, she cried out, Oh no. Sobbing, gasping for breath, she kept repeating, It can’t be. It can’t be.

The conductor, alerted by her condition, and knowing she was traveling alone, asked, Is there anything I can do to help, miss?

Leaning back against her seat, tears cascaded down Carrie’s cheeks. Shock, grief, guilt, fear and sadness all hit at once. A chill coursed through her body. Her handkerchief was damp with tears. She looked up at the conductor from under bangs of frizzy reddish-brown curls, and stuttered, The telegram says that my husband…has died in California from typhoid. I was on my way to him. Now, I’m too late and it’s all my fault. How could this happen?

Every muscle seemed to go numb. She bit her lip to control nausea.

It was 1886; President Grover Cleveland, a Democrat, administered over an expanding United States, including California. Carrie knew that typhoid fever had claimed many lives in the state. But not Leo. Not my Leo. He’d written her with such joy, anticipating she’d be joining him soon.

Remember, I’m here if you need me, the conductor said, and moved on to two older women nearby, who were traveling together. I beg your pardon, but the young woman back there, Mrs. Carrie Chapman, received word her husband in California has died. She’s traveling alone, on the way to him. I thought perhaps you ladies would be able to assist her.

A plump woman wearing a large flowered hat said, I have smelling salts. Standing with difficulty as the train lurched forward, she hurried over to Carrie with a bottle of the salts and a soft linen handkerchief. Settled in the empty seat, she placed a gloved hand on the young woman’s shoulder. My dear, I’m Mrs. Scott. We understand you’ve received word of your husband’s passing. My friend and I want to help if we can. Here are some smelling salts in case you feel faint, and an extra handkerchief.

Thank you. I don’t feel faint, I’m just in shock, Carrie replied, peering through puffy, tear-stained eyes at the woman.

Is someone meeting you, or can we aid with any arrangements when we get to California?

My widowed aunt, my father’s sister, is meeting me in San Francisco. She’s my favorite aunt and she said I could stay…with her. Carrie faltered, then continued, I was on my way to see my husband who came down with typhoid. Now I can’t tell him how much I love him. We’ve only been married for a year and Leo had such big plans for us.

Hard as she tried to contain them, more tears came. Mrs. Scott reached out and drew the young woman to her ample bosom. We want to help you during this dreadful time. She waited a moment before asking, Did your husband seek his fortune in mining or as a salesman?

Carrie sat upright, straightened her paisley-print dress, and adjusted her small flowerpot hat. In a soft, shaky voice she answered, Oh, no. He owned a newspaper in Marshalltown, Iowa. I taught school, but schools don’t employ married women so Leo suggested I write a woman’s column for his newspaper. Then, he decided to look for a new career opportunity in California. I planned to join him as soon as he found something. Now typhoid fever has taken him from me.

Mrs. Scott tried to calm Carrie by engaging her in conversation. How wonderful of him to include you in his work. Um, have you ever traveled before?

My family lives on a farm in Charles City, Iowa. I’ve traveled around the state and made the journey when we moved from Wisconsin to Iowa years ago.

Well, perhaps we can be of help. My friend and I live in San Francisco. I’m sure you’ll find it larger and more confusing than the Iowa towns you know. We’ll give you our addresses. Now, be sure and rest. I’m going back to Mrs. Dutton. She purchased an extra sandwich at the last stop. Maybe you should eat a little something to keep up your strength.

Before Carrie could protest that she had no appetite, the woman got up and returned to her friend. Carrie sank back against her seat, trying to get a handle on what needed to be done.

I’ve always been positive and independent-minded. Now, I feel bewildered and all alone. She looked up as if speaking to her dead husband. Leo, it’s all my fault. You supported me when I started to work for women’s rights. I should have stayed home and not caused you problems. I’m sorry.

As she began the difficult business of sorting out what to do next, Mrs. Scott’s friend appeared, a tiny, well-dressed lady wearing small wire-rimmed glasses. She offered Carrie a paper-wrapped sandwich. I’m Mrs. Dutton. We thought it might be good for you to eat something. We’re starting a climb through the Sierra Mountains, so there’s a way to go yet. You’ll need all your strength for the coming days. We are so sorry and know how hard this must be for you. We have berths close by. If you need help anytime, even during the night, please let us know.

Before returning to her seat, Mrs. Dutton said, We’ll pray for you. I hope your own faith will get you through this unfortunate time.

In their marriage vows Carrie and Leo had said, Until death us do part, never dreaming it would be such a short time. But Carrie found little solace in the Christian religion of her youth. How could a benevolent God take the life of a man so young and promising?

Leo, who wanted to make the world a better place?

The two women left Carrie to her own thoughts. Feeling faint and nauseated, she sniffed the bottle of smelling salts and put her head between her legs to calm herself. Soon, feeling somewhat better, she sat up, remembering the first time she and Leo met. He was the new owner of the local paper, so handsome and gracious. How fast that brief encounter turned into true love. They’d even talked about which one of them their first baby might look like.

Now, the idea that Leo is never going to hold her in his arms, never lend his support, or share his dreams, had turned into a nightmare.

The young woman glanced up at the side curtains of striped cretonne, at the elaborate chandeliers above the center walkway, and then at the seats, to be made into sleeping berths for the passengers. When the porter made up the berths, she could lie down. Carrie wanted to believe she’d awaken and find it all a mistake. Leo would be waiting for her in California.

Her thoughts of getting some sleep were rudely interrupted when a groggy voice asked, Where’s that young lady that needs help? Word of Carrie’s loss had traveled throughout the train.

A disheveled young man in his thirties, reeking of alcohol, almost fell into the empty seat next to her. Well, there you are, you pretty thing. He grabbed her arm in a tight grip, and mumbled in a drunken stupor, I’m just the man to help you with your problems.

Carrie, in shock, drew back to the far corner of her seat. Leave me alone, she cried out.

Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Dutton raced over to her, calling, Get away from her!

The conductor hurried down the aisle and gave the man a shove. Return to your seat at once, and stay there or I will have you arrested.

The conductor bowed to Carrie. I apologize, madam. It won’t happen again.

It better not, Mrs. Scott warned.

The women reassured Carrie that they were close by and nothing more would happen. One more thing to deal with. Now I can’t even relax in bed. That dreadful man might return during the night. She covered herself with a robe, wound tight around her waist, just in case. The drunkard did not return. Morning began to roll onward when she fell into a deep and troubled sleep.

The rest of the trip seemed neverending. Like the tentacles of an octopus, dozens of questions crept through her mind. She felt as though a heavy vise encompassed her head. Occasionally she suffered from migraine headaches, and she felt one coming on.

The conductor came by from time to time to check on her.

The train seemed to stall as much as it moved forward. It stopped early each morning for passengers to get breakfast coffee and bread, and packed-lunch items to eat later in the day. Carrie had no appetite but nibbled at the sandwich Mrs. Dutton gave her. When the train did move, she tried peering through the dirty windows, darkened on the outside with a thick film of dust created by the desert conditions. A few times she was able to appreciate the majestic scenery; massive dark green trees silhouetted against the vast blue Western sky. Her thoughts kept returning to Leo, and how wonderful it would have been for them to see all this together.

The San Francisco women checked on the young widow frequently during the remainder of the trip. Carrie confided in them, I’ve never been involved in a burial. I hope my aunt can help.

We’ll be glad to lend a hand, Mrs. Scott assured her.

When Carrie felt more composed, she asked them, Do you know if California hires married women to teach? In Iowa, you can’t teach after you’re married and that’s really all I’m trained to do. I’d like to return to my family, but I have limited funds and no way to earn a living.

Mrs. Dutton replied, I’m not sure about that. When we get home and you decide to look for work in San Francisco, perhaps we can be of assistance. Right now, you must eat to keep up your strength.

Finally, the train pulled into the station in Oakland, California. Carrie looked out the window to see dozens of workers scurrying about handling luggage and other freight, their actions deliberate. It reminded her of a horde of ants, each ant going about its business with quick and efficient motions. Mrs. Scott stopped by to say, We’ll have to take a ferry across the Bay to Market Street in San Francisco. That’s where your aunt will meet you. Stay close to us. We’ll tell you what to do to be sure you get to the right place.

Carrie’s heart began to pound in her ears and the nausea returned. Oh, please, let me get through this without being sick.

What does your aunt look like? asked Mrs. Dutton.

Carrie pulled out a well-worn photo from her purse. The unsmiling woman in the faded photograph appeared to be in her early thirties. Clad in a long, full-skirted plaid dress, her broad face with wide-set eyes, topped by heavy brows, she had a serious but pleasant youthful demeanor.

This is an older photograph taken when Aunt Myra visited us. I hope she hasn’t changed so much that I won’t recognize her, Carrie explained.

Mrs. Dutton took the photo and examined it. She looks like a very nice person. I’m sure you’ll find each other.

Despite the woman’s optimism, Carrie continued to worry. What if Aunt Myra isn’t there to meet me? How will we recognize each other? It’s been years and years since we were together. Maybe she’s changed. I treated myself to a first-class ticket, and I have very little money to live in such a big city. Will I end up penniless on the streets of San Francisco?

Carrie thanked the conductor for his kindness and followed her new friends through the crowd on the Oakland wharf. As they were walking toward a large side-wheeler ferry to cross the Bay, Carrie said, That drunken fellow on the train. Are all San Francisco men like that? Leo would never have done what he did.

Putting her arm around the young woman’s shoulder, Mrs. Scott said, No my dear. It’s because you’re attractive. Some men don’t know when to leave a situation alone. There are gentlemen in the city who know the right way to treat a lady. Now, let’s hurry and board the ferry.

Trying to calm her fears, Carrie followed the women onto the ferry. I’m sorry I was so upset. That man really frightened me, she told Mrs. Scott.

That’s understandable. You’ve been through a great deal. Things are going to improve once you get settled with your aunt. Carrie realized she had to stiffen up and accept her new surroundings. Leo would have said, I know you can be strong for me.

The unfolding scene fascinated the young woman. She watched freight cars and livestock pens being loaded along with the passengers onto the ferry. Clutching the cloak closer to her shivering body, she pulled the attached hood around her head. It’s so cold and foggy.

You will find that San Francisco can be much cooler and damper than Oakland, Mrs. Dutton said. You’ll need warmer clothes, even in the summer.

By the time the ferry arrived at Market Street in San Francisco, the fog was beginning to lift. Carrie looked out on a sea of people waiting for arrivals or to board the ferry for the return trip to Oakland. She began to panic. How am I going to find Aunt Myra in that crowd? I’ve never seen so many strangers in one place.

She could almost envision Leo’s handsome face in the crowd. Then it struck her. He will never come again. Now it is up to me alone. What happened to my independent ways? In one short year of marriage I came to lean on Leo more and more. That’s over.

Holding back tears, she scanned the crowd for the face in the picture. They made their way off the ferry in tortoise-like fashion when a voice rang out, Carrie Lane, Carrie Lane Chapman!

Carrie glanced around and saw a tall woman, with graying hair arranged under a small hat, waving frantically to get her attention. Carrie breathed a large sigh of relief. She looked similar to the woman in the photograph. It had to be Aunt Myra.

There she is. Oh, how wonderful, she said to her two companions. You must come with me to meet her.

The three scurried along to the waiting woman. Closing the gap, Carrie rushed into her arms. Oh, Aunt Myra, I’m so glad to see you. I worried you wouldn’t be here.

You know your father would never forgive me if I hadn’t come. I’m glad we found each other. I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances. Aunt Myra gave her niece another hug.

Carrie remembered her manners. This is Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Dutton who have been lovely to me during the dreadful train ride. This is my aunt, Mrs. Wilson.

Mrs. Dutton took Aunt Myra’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. Mrs. Scott and I are pleased to meet you. We’ve grown very fond of Carrie in a short period and we’re happy she’ll have someone she loves to help her through this difficult time. We’ll leave you now. Carrie has information on how to contact us in case we can help in any way.

Thank you for taking care of her on the train. I worried about what would happen when she learned about Leo. Knowing you were there is very comforting, Aunt Myra said.

Carrie’s traveling companions each gave her a hug and left to claim their luggage. Aunt Myra took charge of her niece. We’ll pick up your luggage and get you home. We can relax over a cup of hot tea and then discuss what needs to be done.

Carrie squeezed her aunt’s hand. Papa said you would be here, but when I saw that big crowd I got scared. Being with family is wonderful.

Your father and I shared many times, good and bad, together. It means a lot that I can be here for you now, said Aunt Myra, showering Carrie with a loving, maternal smile.

The next few weeks found the young widow busy with the handling of her husband’s body. She telegraphed Leo’s parents in Collins, Iowa, a small town near Des Moines, to tell them of his death. They stressed the importance of having Leo’s body returned to Iowa for a proper burial in the family grave site, and they enclosed a small amount of money to help in shipping the body. Carrie and Aunt Myra made arrangements with the coroner’s office to have the body shipped as requested. The young widow found it difficult to say goodbye to her husband. Tears fell as she knelt at the coffin and whispered, Farewell, dear Leo, my love. I am sorry I cannot accompany you but your family will see that you receive the right attention. Thank you for a wonderful year together. My deepest love goes with you.

Aunt Myra held onto her as she stood. I believe this is the best way for you to reconcile your own feelings with those of Leo’s parents. He’ll be in a good place with loving care.

Carrie told her aunt, It means so much to have part of my family with me. You lost your husband not long ago and know what an empty feeling I have. Now, I’ll have to see what the future brings.

2

1872

CHARLES CITY, IOWA

President Grant, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Greeley, and Mr. Brown were the names Carrie Lane gave to four kittens in the family cat’s new litter. For weeks she had been listening to her father, Lucius Lane, discussing the upcoming presidential election with the hired men on the Charles City, Iowa, farm where they lived. Everyone was talking about the approaching election.

Republican Ulysses S. Grant, the incumbent and Civil War general, and his running mate Henry Wilson, faced Democrat Horace Greeley, a reformer known for his outspoken editorials in the New York Tribune newspaper, and his vice-presidential candidate Benjamin Gratz Brown. Thirteen-year-old Carrie announced to her family, I am naming four of the kittens after the election candidates.

Because farmers in the Midwest were suffering severe economic hardships, Lucius never swerved from his conviction that President Grant must be replaced. He felt Horace Greeley would be the man to do it, and he told that to anyone who would listen.

An avid reader, eager to learn, Carrie always asked, Why? She kept nagging her father to take her with him to a Greeley campaign rally until he finally agreed. Exhilaration filled the air the day of the rally. Lucius and his daughter joined others who arrived in wagons and on horseback from all over the territory. Men with long, shaggy beards, wearing bright suspenders over heavy plaid shirts, and cowboys with wide-brimmed hats, leather vests, and kerchiefs tied about their necks, mingled with gentlemen in sackcloth suits and bowler hats. A family affair, women dressed in the latest fashions joined ladies in plain, long housedresses topped with warm shawls; children of all ages ran about. Everyone had come to see and hear the man from the East tell them why he should be the next president.

In the midst of all the bubbling activity, Carrie’s eyes sparkled and she bounced from foot to foot. Her father reached out a hand to settle her down.

Horace Greeley, a strong opponent of slavery and alcohol, was also a proponent of spiritualism and social reforms, favoring labor unions and company profit sharing. Known for his charge, Go west young man, and grow up with the country, he believed that opportunity lay in settlement of the West. Carrie listened attentively to his speech and found the man a spellbinder. When he finished, she tugged at her father’s arm. Isn’t he wonderful? In the wagon on the ride home, she continued to be starry-eyed. Just think, we’ve actually seen and heard the next president of the United States!

I sure hope so, her father answered in a dry tone.

The day of the big election arrived. Carrie woke early in eager anticipation of the hours ahead. For a few minutes she lay in bed, stretching her body and wiggling her toes under the covers, imagining what the day would be like. The family would ride into town and she’d get to watch the Charles City voters go to the polls to cast their ballots. Her father might even treat them to a sarsaparilla. I hope Mr. Greeley wins. Oh, if only I was old enough to vote.

She arose and after washing up, donned the pretty navy-blue dress with ruffled overskirt that her mother had made for special occasions. She had selected everything the night before, even making sure the boots were polished. She checked the mirror several times, straightening her skirt and pushing back a few errant tendrils of hair from around her face. Slipping a pinafore over the favorite dress to protect it, the young girl raced down the stairs to the room below for breakfast.

There she found her father and the farm’s hired men sitting at the table, dressed in their best clothes, ready to make the five-mile trip into town after breakfast. Carrie was surprised to see her mother clad in one of her old brown housedresses, tied at the waist with a gingham apron.

Mother, why aren’t you dressed to go into town? she asked.

Maria Lane set a large platter of potatoes and breakfast sausages down in front of the men. Nudging strands of graying hair from her temples, she wiped her hands on the apron and replied, Of course I’m not going. With all the election talk you’ve heard, you must know women can’t vote.

Lucius stroked his clipped chin beard and began to chuckle. The other men and Carrie’s brother Charles, three years her senior, joined in. I run the farm and it’s my duty to do the voting, her father explained.

One hired man tilted his chair back and grinned, displaying several missing teeth. What with havin’ babies, keepin’ the home and feedin’ the family, a woman best leave it to the men folk to do the politickin’ and votin’.’

Carrie, dismayed by everyone’s reaction, and ready to argue, saw that even her mother was smiling. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them see a crybaby.

Why, if I could vote I might surprise your father and vote for President Grant, her mother joked.

You wouldn’t! Carrie’s face mirrored extreme disappointment. How could her mother be so insensitive? Voting was serious and important for everyone. Turning to leave the room, she wanted to shout out how unfair it all seemed, but Maria called to her, Come and help with breakfast, so the men folk can be off.

Carrie gave a gigantic sigh, then trudged back into the kitchen to help her mother serve the rest of the breakfast. Large bowls of steaming oatmeal, eggs over easy, bread and butter, freshly made pie, and mugs of strong, hot coffee. She sat and ate in silence, while the men discussed the election. When they finished eating, Lucius drove away in a buggy with the hired men to cast their ballots, leaving Carrie, her brothers, Charles and William, and Maria behind.

A steady stream of thoughts swirled through the young girl’s head. Today was going to be special. Now, I can’t even go into town to see people cast their ballots. I know I have to be older to vote, but why can’t Mother vote? She’s bright, interested in many things, and should have as much right to decide on the president of the United States as the men. She vowed that she’d find out the reason why women couldn’t vote.

That night, Carrie questioned her father. Why can’t Mother vote, while Mike, Hans, Peter, and others can? His answer far from satisfying, she decided to challenge him. The real reason Mother can’t vote is because no one has thought about women having that right. When I grow up, I’m going to tell everyone that we should be able to cast a ballot. You’ll see! Lucius laughed, which infuriated Carrie even more.

The final results of the election were depressing. The man Carrie thought so charismatic lost to President Grant by more than three-quarter of a million votes. Greeley died a few weeks later, on November 29, 1872. Although displeased, by that time Carrie had more concern about a woman’s right to vote than the election itself. Only later did she learn that Horace Greeley had favored educating women, but not for giving them the right to vote.

3

1887

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

San Francisco was a bustling, sophisticated city, with a population of more than 230,000, many foreign born. The busy streets brought to mind an Impressionist’s painting: delicate pastels and brilliant colors juxtaposed against a dazzling sunlit landscape. Chinese, Europeans, Russians, Hispanics, Africans and American Indians melded with American settlers. Bankers and lawyers in meticulous attire strode beside rough and tumble cattlemen and grungy prospectors. Beautifully dressed and coiffed ladies, carrying ruffled umbrellas, passed Chinese men wearing black pants, jackets, and satin slippers, some with long jet-black queues (pigtails) hanging down their backs. Large, multiple-story buildings lined the walkways. A strange car that rang little bells ran down the middle of a few streets.

When Carrie asked about the car, among all the new things she saw, Aunt Myra explained, The small car running on tracks is called a ‘cable car.’ They are gradually being added to more streets that climb the city’s steep hills.

Carrie became almost numb as she began the task of finding work to be able to remain in California. One morning, she said to her aunt, What a change from the calm of tiny Charles City. There everyone seemed so similar. People dress in quiet tones and movement is slow as they go about their business. Here the scenery is always changing. It’s exciting to be a part of it, but goodness knows what kind of work I can find.

Wiping the last of the breakfast dishes, Aunt Myra asked, What do you think you want to do?

There are too many memories in Iowa. I hope to remain here, at least for now. Should I tell her the main reason I don’t want to go back? Yes, she answered herself.

"I taught school in Mason City. That’s how I met Leo. Mr. Shepard, an important man in the city, kept finding fault with most of the changes I wanted to make in the school. He fought progressive ideas.

After we were married, I began writing columns in the paper Leo owned. I wrote about women’s rights a number of times. Again, Mr. Shepard found fault with my remarks and Leo defended me. He became so perturbed with Mr. Shepard that he accused him of wrongdoing and Leo was sued for libel. He didn’t think anything would come of it, based on similar things occurring in other areas. But the local judge said he had to stand trial. That’s when we sold the paper and Leo came to California. I went back home until he could find another paper to purchase.

Carrie’s head dropped, her body shook, and she began to cry. Oh, Aunt Myra, it was all my fault and Leo died because of me. If I’d stayed at home and been a good wife, he would be alive today. We didn’t say anything to anyone, even my family. That’s why I don’t want to return to Iowa.

Myra gave Carrie a big hug. You don’t have to go home until you are ready, dear. I’m glad you told me all this. You’ve been blaming yourself for Leo’s death because he came to California, but it’s not your fault. He defended you because he loved and believed in you.

I’m glad I told you, too. I’ve thought so much about it lately and it seemed like I should keep it to myself.

Now, enough of that. You have many talents. We’ll find you a job, I’m sure, and you can stay here as long as you like.

I have the newspaper experience, working for Leo. Perhaps that will help. I’ve also taught school but am not sure what they require in this state. I did find a couple of possibilities in the paper.

The job hunt is on and I’m certain you’ll be successful, Aunt Myra said.

Wearing her most professional-looking dress, complete with a flowered hat and gloves, she began the search. Aunt Myra advised her regarding transportation and locations within the city. After days of job searching with no results, she found a listing for an advertising representative at a small commercial publication.

Carrie located the office building, entered, and knocked on a solid, dark wooden door that bore a sign, The Weekly Uptown Reporter. A feminine voice called out, Come in. She opened the door to see a low black metal fence running the width of the room, forming a narrow passage along one side. The fence had a gate in the middle and to the left was a desk. Behind it sat an angular-faced woman, peering at Carrie over large, dark-rimmed glasses. Yes? came from across the fence.

I read your ad about a newspaper advertising representative. I’m here to apply for the job, Carrie responded.

Just a minute. The woman rose and walked over to a large desk in the corner. Behind it sat a short, heavyset, white-haired man, with shirtsleeves rolled up, bending over a stack of papers and writing brief notes on the top sheet. Lifting his head, his piercing eyes did a quick study of Carrie. The woman returned, opened the gate, and pointed to him.

Carrie approached and the man looked up, smiled, and gestured to a chair across from his desk. He stood and offered his outstretched hand. Jack Henry. I hear you’re interested in a job we have open. Tell me why you should be hired. To be honest, I had a man in mind.

I’m meeting another man who doesn’t believe in women working outside the home.

Seating herself, she explained that she was new in the city and why. My husband owned a small newspaper and I wrote columns on a variety of subjects which interested the readers. I’m a college graduate. I’ve been a teacher and a school superintendent.

The owner, impressed with the attractive young widow, leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. I think you might do well as an ad representative. Pay is commission based on how many ads you sell. The last rep I had made about fourteen to sixteen dollars a week. I’m still interviewing, so give me a call in a few days to see whether the job is yours or not.

With that he returned to his pile of papers. Carrie thanked him and made her way out the door. Most women averaged five to eight dollars a week. She had heard that a highly skilled stenographer made seventy-five dollars a month. The offer of a weekly fourteen to sixteen dollars sounded pretty good to her. She decided to continue job hunting, but after several interviews the ad representative position seemed the best. She hoped a man hadn’t beaten her out of the appointment.

When she called Mr. Henry, he said, Yes, the job is yours. When can you start?

This is the end of the week, so I could start Monday.

Good. We’ll see you then. Eight o’clock sharp.

Carrie rushed home to tell her aunt the news. At last, she had a job. They discussed what her plans would be as far as housing. San Francisco continued to grow and housing was becoming more limited and expensive. Because her aunt’s home had two bedrooms, they decided Carrie could stay there. She would pay monthly rent and contribute to grocery bills and other expenses. It helped both women out financially and they delighted in each other’s company.

Myra, having lost her own husband only a few years before, understood Carrie’s need to get out and think about things other than her loss. She planned trips for the two of them to investigate San Francisco. They enjoyed Golden Gate Park, currently being developed. They were also intrigued by a place called Chinatown. To Carrie it was new and exciting, viewing the green-tiled pagoda roofs and carved dragon-decorated buildings and hearing people speaking different Chinese dialects. Chinese rickshaws could be seen taking Chinese men and tourists in and out of the crowded streets. They caught glimpses of women in traditional cheongsams made of silk, which featured large colorful peonies or chrysanthemums. Wonderful aromas filled the air: ginger, sesame, lychee, and cumin.

It would be interesting to try one of the restaurants and look more closely at the shop displays, but we’ve been warned it’s not wise for women to venture into Chinatown, Aunt Myra explained to Carrie.

What a shame. It looks like it would be fun to explore.

Chinatown had gained the reputation of being a den of prostitution, gambling, and filth, disease, crime, and misery. A Special Committee of the Board of Supervisors of San Francisco issued a report on the condition of the Chinese Quarter, stating that Chinatown must stand apart, conspicuous and beyond all in the extreme degree of all horrible attributes, the rankest outgrowth of human degradation that can be found on this continent.

A year passed and Carrie began to feel more comfortable in her new home. She had made a few friends and enjoyed sharing time with her aunt. The ad representative job was going well and she received a small raise. One day Mr. Henry asked her to stop on the way home to collect an ad payment due. She located the business, climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, and knocked on a closed office door. A tall young man, with dark hair parted on the side and sporting a waxed mustache and bright- colored bow tie, looked up from a large desk.

Mr. Emory?

Yes.

"I’m Carrie Chapman. I’ve been asked by Mr. Henry of the Weekly Uptown Reporter to stop by and collect the money for an ad you ran in recent weeks."

The man gave Carrie a quick once-over. Gesturing to a seat near his desk, he said, Sit down. I’ll write you a check. And I’ll need a receipt.

He got out his checkbook and wrote a check, casting subtle glances at Carrie the whole time. Carrie removed her receipt book and filled one in. She returned the book to her purse, rose, and leaned forward to receive the gentleman’s check and hand him the receipt. Instead of reaching for the receipt, he stood and came from behind his desk. In a flash, he grabbed Carrie around the waist with his right arm and pulled her to him.

Stunned, Carrie pushed with both hands as hard as she could on the man’s chest. Her strength surprised him and he pitched backwards, allowing Carrie to move away and catch her breath. She was furious. With neck veins enlarged and a firm jaw, she gave Mr. Emory a steely glare. You are a despicable man. Your behavior is outrageous! she yelled.

Amazed by her wrath, the man stepped behind the desk, shrugged his shoulders, and tried to laugh it off. I don’t know why you’re so upset. You’re a good-looking woman and appearing here after six o’clock at night. What was I to think? Seemed like we could have a little fun.

Carrie stood with hands on both hips, a disgusted look on her face. Well, you were wrong. You are the last person I want anything to do with. I hope we never meet again.

Okay, lady. Here’s your check, he replied, handing it over. He hurriedly opened the door, ushered her out, then closed the door and locked it. No apology.

On the street, Carrie took some deep breaths to try to regain her composure. She began walking along the darkened path, incensed and muttering to herself about that atrocious Mr. Emory. The egotist, thinking he was God’s gift to women. She finally calmed down and reasoned that this symbolized what many men thought of women working in business. There is no recourse. If I tell Mr. Henry, he will probably laugh, do nothing about it or tell me it comes with the job. They might lose the man’s business. Maybe