"The Little Hunchback," a Story of a Lafayette Orphan by Rebecca Gordon Ball

 Part One of this story was written by Rebecca Gordon Ball for the Lafayette Journal after the Civil War during a time when orphan children were sent from New York to parts of the Midwest to find homes. Rebecca was an eyewitness to a tragic scene at the train depot in Lafayette, Indiana. This riveting encounter with a little orphan girl and her wicked caretaker will touch even the coldest of hearts.

Rebecca Gordon Ball
 (Courtesy of A. Winter Ball Bottum)

I had just returned from the depot, where I had seen, gathered together, a large number of children and youths, taken from the highways of New York City and sent West to claim that charity which, I think, in many cases might be invested at home, for although the old adage of “Charity beginning at home” is by many voted a selfish one, I cannot but think it a truth which through a mistaken zeal is too often overlooked; however, I with others, had gone and looked upon the group of orphans, and dropped a tear at the sad truth that they were orphans – for in that word is generally comprised all the sorrows of childhood – and I fancied – but, no, it was not fancy – that I saw a shadow on each young brow, which told a sad story – Motherless!    (Postcard Photo: Monon Depot in Lafayette, Courtesy of Preserve Historic Lafayette)

There were little creatures there, scarcely past their babyhood, looking around, terrified at the many strange faces; the tears running down their cheeks, and sobbing as if their hearts would break – but there was no mother there to wipe their tears away and hush their throbbing bosoms on her own. True, there were women with them, but it was a matter of business with them. Their duty was to dispose of the children, not to love them, and as soon as an offer was made to take the child, it was handed over and hurried away by one it had never seen before.

I saw two bright-eyed little brothers of perhaps eight and ten years of age, standing closely together, as if dreading that someone would separate them, and clinging closer through fear. But soon one was taken, and despite the effort “to be a man,” as one of the nurses told him to be, the floodgates of his heart were opened, and the great tears ran like April rain down his cheeks.

There were young girls there, of sixteen and eighteen years of age, sitting in rows, waiting for someone to offer them a home. Men, young and old, rude and gentle, had gathered around, scanning them, and making their comments, in quite a loud tone, on their appearance. Some of the girls looked up, and with a bold and fearless face returned their gaze; but others hung their heads, with a look of hopeless sadness; one near where I sat burst into tears and wept as the children had wept.

Perhaps it was right and proper to send them abroad to seek homes, but the whole scene reminded me very forcibly of a slave auction here of husband and wife, none who had the power to place the fetters on their hands or lash them for their tears. There was no separation between parents and children. Death had accomplished that, far away – still, many a heart was bleeding from its fresh wounds, and the whole scene was to the painful and heart-sickening, and I left the place with feelings very much saddened, and had just reached home and was taking off my hat and cloak, when my attention was arrested by hearing a weak, child-like voice, on my back porch, saying: “I want some milk, if you please. I want it for my little sister, cause she’s so sick.”   (Postcard Photo: A representation of an orphan girl from this period)

Rebecca Ball's Home at Sixth & Main Street
(Photo Courtesy of A. Winter Ball Bottum)

I opened my room door and saw, standing at the kitchen window, a little ragged, half-frozen, and nearly naked child.

“Who is your sister?” I asked. “Her name is Mary,” she replied, “she used to come here to beg, but now she’s sick and can’t come anymore, and I want some milk for her.”

I thought for a moment who Mary could be; then it flashed upon my mind that it was the little “Hunchback,” as she was called, from a terrible deformity in her back. My conscience smote me, for I now remember to have heard of her being ill some time before and had suffered it to pass from my mind. I ordered the milk to be given and determined to go the next day and learn the condition of the sick child.

All that night my dreams were filled with the orphans of the depot. I could see the sad faces of the young girls and hear the sobbings of the motherless children. But a bright morning’s sun put an end to my dreams. It was a pleasant morning late in February. Winter’s last snow was fast disappearing in the warm sun’s rays when, true to my determination, I set out to find the home of the little Hunchback.

After having reached the suburbs of the city, I was directed to an old desolate-looking two-story framed house, with all manner of things stuffed in the broken panes of the upper windows, at the abode of the child I sought. The house was very old and leaned over to one side in a tumbling manner and sunk down below the road in a sort of marsh or mud pond.

As I approached, I saw, running towards it, her little naked feet making soft tracks in the melting snow, a child who I at once recognized as the one who had come the day before for the milk. As soon as her eye caught sight of me she knew me, and quickening her speed, she reached the house first and pushed open the rickety door for me to enter. When I had done so, and cast my eye around the wretched abode, I inwardly exclaimed, “Well, here are objects of charity nearer home than New York, and objects too, which have the first claim upon our sympathy.”

Everything around bespoke the most squalid poverty and destitution of life’s necessaries. And here this little orphan child had lain, sick and suffering, for months and we had not sought her out and cared for her but had sent our charity all the way to New York for objects, and passed by those which, like Lazarus, lay at our very gates.

The child’s disease was one of the most painful kinds and called for the softest bed and the tenderest care, yet she lay upon a bed of shavings with scarcely sufficient covering to keep out the bleak wintry winds when through the cold months had been howling around her. Mary had been, for some time, in the habit of coming to my house, and as soon as she heard my voice she knew it and called my name.

I went to her bedside and asked her if she was glad to see me. She quickly replied, “Oh, yes, ma’am, I am so glad,” and tried to smile, but oh, how wan and cheerless her smile looked. Her sunken eyes brightened, but the mist gathered in mine as I looked upon the pale, little sufferer.

Her only nurse was an old Irish woman whose appearance, I am sorry to say, gave evidence of rebellion against the Sunday law, and plainly said that she would not bear any restriction in her potations on that or any other day. There was no relationship between her and the children, but she had got possession of them and made beggars of them for her own support and had forced this little deformed and sick girl to wander up and down this city, weary and suffering, soliciting, which sometimes was freely given and frequently refused with harshness.

I turned with a feeling of indignation to the woman and said, “How could you be so cruel as to send this child wandering through the streets when you knew she was unable to bear it and was suffering from such a terrible disease?”

“Indade,” said she, with the peculiar accent of her race, “as it was the only way I had to live meself.”

“Well, said I, “you are well and strong and better able to have gone yourself. It was shockingly cruel in you to send her.”

“Sure an it’s trouble enough I have had to keep ‘em,” said she, “that one,” pointing to the youngest, “is but six years ould, and her mother and father has been dead these ten years; and it’s I that’s done for them and given them the bit out of me own mouth.”  Here, she took hold of the little one, and giving her a shake, said, “Won’t you tell this lady I did it, Cathy?”

Cathy understood the look and the shake and was quite willing to confess a falsehood, so answered with a guilty look, “Yes, Aunty, it’s you that’s done for us; and given us the bit out of your own mouth, you did so, and the day that other lady gave me…” Here, Aunty fearing that Cathy was about to tell more than she bargained for, put her hand on the child’s mouth and said, “Whist now, there’s enough on it.” And Cathy, with a frightened look shrank down in the corner.

There was another Irish woman sitting, smoking her pipe in the room, called Mrs. Doty. She looked like a decent woman and quite sober. She had kept very quiet when Aunty told her story, but had noticed the inconsistency of it, and now began pulling her by the sleeve and tried to convince her of it, but Aunty turned early on her and said, “ It’s God’s truth I’m tellin’.  Is it a liar you would be making me?”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Doty, “but don’t you see yourself?” “Well, well,” persisted Mrs. Doty, “you told her Cathy was but six years old, and her father and mother died these ten years; sure she’ll not believe a word on it.”

“Divil a bit I care, now,” said Aunty. “It is the truth, it is.” And staggering to a shelf, she took down a pipe, and seating herself on Mary’s bed began to add her share of smoke to the already stifling quantity in the room, I tried to prevail on her to move her seat to the opposite side of the room, so that Mary should not be so oppressed with the smoke, but she was so stupid with liquor that I could do nothing with her. To all I said she only answered in a kind of wild singing tone, “The Banshee! The Banshee! Can’t come in through the smoke!”

After begging Mrs. Doty to take some care of the child I went away, but felt very sad when I thought how much care that little orphan needed, and how very little she would receive, and that she might suffer abuse in the night when left entirely alone with the old woman, and I thought, too, how grateful children should be whose parents God had spared and what lesson they might learn when they complain and are distressed when crossed in trifles; if they would pay a visit to the old house; and look for a moment on the Little Hunchback, I think it would teach them to set a higher value on their parents and the blessings with which they are surrounded.  (To be continued)