Part 1: The Gunshots that Shook Newport
Tuesday, October 6, 1885, was a rainy morning on bustling Levin Street in Newport, Rhode Island. Despite the rain, the day began like any other, with milkmen and delivery boys making their usual rounds. Wives and daughters carried out their household duties while keeping an eye on the small children. Horses pulled wagons and carriages noisily up and down the short artery between swanky Bellevue Avenue to the east and Thames Street, the commercial heart of Newport, to the west. On either side of Levin Street, a diverse population occupied homes that were interspersed between bars, liveries and family-run businesses. Amongst the clamor of the morning, the first gunshot from the Burton residence at 63 Levin Street went relatively unnoticed. A few neighbors would later say, upon reflection, that they’d heard that first shot. When a second shot quickly followed, folks paused their morning activities to listen. Then the screaming began.
The screams came from a young Black woman who burst through the doorway of the Burton home — one of the largest in the neighborhood, an imposing two-and-a-half-story building with the family’s living quarters, adjoining a four-family tenement — and dashed up the street. Her cries of “Help! My father has shot himself!” echoed throughout the neighborhood. Those closest to the Burton house rushed to the open doorway, pushing their way inside, where they were met by a younger woman beckoning the crowd toward the back of the house. “Father has killed himself, go and get somebody!” she sobbed, pointing to the kitchen.
On the floor, legs sprawled under the breakfast table, lay the body of 59-year-old entrepreneur Benjamin J. Burton, reputed to be Rhode Island’s wealthiest Black businessman. A small pistol lay by his side. A delivery man who had hastily abandoned his wagon on the street stepped forward and gently put his fingers on Burton’s wrist, searching for a pulse. Slowly returning Burton’s hand to the floor, he shook his head and stepped away from the body.
In the chaos, someone flagged down the police officer walking the neighborhood beat. The policeman dutifully called for the medical examiner and coroner, before turning his attention to the gawking onlookers streaming in and out of the front door.
The medical examiner quickly assumed command of the scene and ordered Burton’s body moved to the kitchen table. A cursory inspection revealed two bullet wounds: one to the back of the head just above the right ear and a second to the left side of his chest. A curious white object protruded from Burton’s mouth. It was a large piece of unchewed bread, its presence silently noted by the medical examiner. Within minutes, Burton was unceremoniously declared dead. It now fell to the coroner to determine the cause.