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      There was once a slave... | Project Gutenberg
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75237 ***</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</span></p>




<h1><i>There was once a slave</i>...</h1>

<p class="center">SHIRLEY GRAHAM</p>


<p class="center"><i>The heroic story of</i><br>
FREDERICK DOUGLASS</p><br>

<p class="center">JULIAN MESSNER, Inc., NEW YORK
</p><br>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</span></p>




<div class="blockquot">

<p><span class="smcap">There Was Once a Slave</span>, <i>The Heroic Story of Frederick
Douglass</i> by Shirley Graham, received the sixty-five hundred dollar
<span class="allsmcap">JULIAN MESSNER AWARD FOR THE BEST BOOK COMBATING INTOLERANCE
IN AMERICA</span>. The judges were: Carl Van Doren, Lewis Gannett,
and Clifton Fadiman. Miss Graham’s work was selected from over six
hundred manuscripts submitted in the contest. The original award was
augmented by a grant from the Lionel Judah Tachna Memorial Foundation,
established by Max Tachna in memory of his son who lost his life in
the Battle of the Coral Sea.</p>
</div>
</div>
<br>




<p class="center">PUBLISHED BY JULIAN MESSNER, INC.<br>
8 WEST 40TH STREET, NEW YORK 18</p>

<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1947<br>
BY SHIRLEY GRAHAM</p>

<p class="center">PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<br>
BY MONTAUK BOOK MANUFACTURING CO., INC.
</p><br>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</span></p>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">


<p class="center">To Peoples on the March
</p>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent4"><i>You cannot hem the hope of being free</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>With parallels of latitude, with mountain range or sea;</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent0"><i>Put heavy padlocks on Truth’s lips, be callous as you will,</i></div>
    <div class="verse indent4"><i>From soul to soul, o’er all the world,</i></div> 
    <div class="verse indent4"><i>leaps the electric thrill.</i></div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">James Russell Lowell</span><br>
</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p>
</div>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="Contents"><i>Contents</i></h2>
</div>

<table class="autotable">
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Prologue">Prologue</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">ix</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#Part_I">PART I · THE ROAD</a></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">CHAPTER</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">1</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_One">Frederick sets his feet upon the road</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">3</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">2</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Two">The road winds about Chesapeake Bay</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">16</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">3</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Three">An old man drives his mule</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">29</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">4</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Four">Frederick comes to a dead end</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">36</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">5</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Five">One more river to cross</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">63</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#Part_II">PART II · THE LIGHTNING</a></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">6</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Six">Is this a thing, or can it be a man?</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">83</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">7</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Seven">Jobs in Washington and voting in Rhode Island</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">103</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">8</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Eight">On two sides of the Atlantic</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">119</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">9</td>
<td class="tdl">“<i><a href="#Chapter_Nine">To be henceforth free, manumitted and discharged ...</a></i>”</td>
<td class="tdr">137</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">10</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Ten">A light is set in the road</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">155</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#Part_III">PART III · THE STORM</a></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">&nbsp;</td>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">11</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Eleven">The storm comes up in the west and birds fly north</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">175</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">12</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Twelve">An Avenging Angel brings the fury of the storm</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">190</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">13</td>
<td class="tdl">“<i><a href="#Chapter_Thirteen">Give us arms, Mr. Lincoln!</a></i>”</td>
<td class="tdr">208</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">14</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Fourteen">Came January 1, 1863</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">223</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><a href="#Part_IV">PART IV · TOWARD MORNING</a></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">15</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Fifteen">When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">229</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">16</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Sixteen">Moving forward</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">240</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">17</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Seventeen">Fourscore years ago in Washington</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">256</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">18</td>
<td class="tdl">“<i><a href="#Chapter_Eighteen">If slavery could not kill us, liberty won’t</a></i>”</td>
<td class="tdr">272</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">19</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Nineteen">Indian summer and a fair harvest</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">288</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl">20</td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Chapter_Twenty">The Môle St. Nicolas</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">294</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Epilogue">Epilogue</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">309</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Bibliography">Bibliography</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr">311</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdl"></td>
<td class="tdl"><i><a href="#Footnotes">Footnotes</a></i></td>
<td class="tdr"></td>
</tr>
</table>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span></p>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Prologue"><i>Prologue</i></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
I keep my eye on the bright north star and think of liberty.<br>
</p>

<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">From an old slave song</span><br>
</p>


<p>They told him that he was a slave, that he must bend his back, walk
low, with eyes cast down, think not at all and sleep without a dream.
But every beat of hoe against a twisted root, each narrow furrow
reaching toward the hill, flight of a bird across the open field, creak
of the ox-cart in the road—all spoke to him of freedom.</p>

<p>For Frederick Douglass had his eyes upon a star.</p>

<p>This dark American never knew the exact date of his birth. Some time in
1817 or 1818 or 1819 he was born in Talbot County on the Eastern Shore
of the state of Maryland. Who were his people? “Genealogical trees,” he
wrote in his autobiography, “did not flourish among slaves. A person of
some consequence in civilized society, sometimes designated as father,
was literally unknown to slave law and to slave practices.”</p>

<p>His first years were spent in a kind of breeding pen, where, with dogs
and pigs and other young of the plantation, black children were raised
for the fields and turpentine forests. The only bright memories of his
childhood clung round his grandmother’s log hut. He remembered touching
his mother once. After he was four or five years old he never saw or
heard of her again.</p>

<p>This is the story of how from out that breeding pen there came a Man.
It begins in August of the year of our Lord, 1834. Andrew Jackson was
in the White House. Horace Greeley was getting a newspaper going in
New York. William Lloyd Garrison had been dragged through the streets
of Boston, a rope around his neck. Slavery had just been abolished
wherever the Union Jack flew. Daniel O’Connell was lifting his
voice, calling the people of Ireland together. Goethe’s song of the
brotherhood of man was echoing in the hills. Tolstoy was six years old,
and Abraham Lincoln was growing up in Illinois.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="Part_I">Part I</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>THE ROAD</i><br>
<br>
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams<br>
</p>


<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">Walt Whitman</span><br>
</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p>


<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_One"><span class="smcap">Chapter One</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Frederick sets his feet upon the road</i><br>
</p>


<p>The long day was ending. Now that the sun had dropped behind scrawny
pine trees, little eddies of dust stirred along the road. A bit of
air from the bay lifted the flaccid leaves and lightly rustled the
dry twigs. A heap of rags and matted hair that had seemed part of
the swampy underbrush stirred. A dark head lifted cautiously. It
was bruised and cut, and the deep eyes were wide with terror. For a
moment the figure was motionless—ears strained, aching muscles drawn
together, ready to dive deeper into the scrub. Then the evening breeze
touched the bloated face, tongue licked out over cracked, parched lips.
As the head sagged forward, a single drop of blood fell heavily upon
the dry pine needles.</p>

<p><i>Water!</i> The wide nostrils distended gratefully, tasting the
moisture in the air—cool like the damp bricks of the well. Cracked
fingers twitched as if they wrapped themselves around a rusty cup—the
rough red cup with its brimming goodness of cool water. It had stood
right at the side of his grandmother’s hut—the old well had—its
skyward-pointing beam so aptly placed between the limbs of what had
once been a tree, so nicely balanced that even a small boy could move
it up and down with one hand and get a drink without calling for help.
The bundle of rags in the bushes shivered violently. Benumbed limbs
were coming alive. He must be quiet, lie still a little longer, breathe
slowly.</p>

<p>But the stupor which had locked his senses during the heat of the
August day was lifting. Pain which could not be borne made him writhe.
He gritted his teeth. His head seemed to float somewhere in space,
swelling and swelling. He pressed against the ground, crushing the pine
needles against his lips. Faces and voices were blurred in his memory.
Sun, hot sun on the road—bare feet stirring the dust. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> road
winding up the hill—dust in the road. He had watched his grandmother
disappear in the dust of the road. His mother had gone too, waving
goodbye. The road had swallowed them up. The shadows of the trees were
blotting out the road. There were only trees here. He lay still.</p>

<p>Darkness falls swiftly in the pine woods. He raised himself once more
and looked about. A squirrel scurried for cover. Then everything was
still—no harsh voices, no curses, no baying of hounds. That meant they
were not looking for him. With the dogs it would have been easy enough.
Covey had not bothered to take time out from work. Covey knew he could
not get away.</p>

<p>Masters who sent their slaves to this narrow neck of stubborn land
between the bay and the river knew their property was safe. Edward
Covey enjoyed the reputation of being a first-rate hand at breaking
“bad niggers.” Slaveholders in the vicinity called him in when they
had trouble. Since Covey was a poor man his occupation was of immense
advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm worked with very
little expense. Like some horse-breakers noted for their skill, who
rode the best horses in the country without expense, Covey could have
under him the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood. He guaranteed to
return any slave to his master well broken.</p>

<p>Captain Auld had turned over to Covey this impudent young buck who had
been sent down to the Eastern Shore from Baltimore. Among the items
of his wife’s property, Captain Auld had found this slave listed as
“Frederick.”</p>

<p>“Sly and dangerous!” The Captain’s voice was hard. “Got to be broken
now while he’s young.”</p>

<p>“Frederick!” Covey had mouthed the syllables distastefully, his
small green eyes traveling over the stocky, well-formed limbs, broad
shoulders and long brown arms. “Too much name—too much head!” The
comment was a sort of low growl. But his tones were servile as he
addressed the master.</p>

<p>“Know his kind well. Just leave him to me. I’ll take it out of him.”</p>

<p>Then Frederick had lifted his head. His broad, smooth face turned to
his master. His eyes were eloquent. <i>Why?</i> But his lips did not
move. Captain Auld spoke sternly.</p>

<p>“Watch yourself! Don’t be bringing him back to me crippled. He’ll fetch
a fair price in a couple of years. Comes of good stock.”</p>

<p>Thomas Auld (why “Captain” no one knew) had not been born a
slaveholder. Slaves had come to him through marriage. The stench<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> of
the whole thing sickened him, but he despised himself for his weakness.
He dreaded his wife’s scorn. She had grown up on the Lloyd plantation
where there were more slaves than anybody could count and there was
always plenty of everything. Colonel Lloyd never had trouble with his
slaves, she taunted her husband. Auld would tighten his colorless,
thin lips. God knows he tried hard enough—starved himself to feed a
parcel of no-good, lazy blacks. He thoroughly hated them all. This one
now—this sleek young buck—he’d been ruined in the city by Hugh Auld.
By his own brother and by that milk-faced wife of his. Teaching him to
read! Ruining a good, strong field hand! Well, he’d try Covey. See what
he could do.</p>

<p>“Take him along!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>That had been shortly after “the Christmas.” It was now hot summer. For
Frederick a long, long time had passed. He was indeed “broken.”</p>

<p>A shuddering groan escaped the boy. Part of Covey’s irritation could
be understood. He <i>had</i> been clumsy and slow about the fields and
barn. But he dared not ask questions, and since nobody took the trouble
to tell him anything his furrows were shallow and crooked.</p>

<p>He failed at running the treadmill. He had never even seen horned
cattle before. So it was not surprising that his worst experiences had
been with them. The strong, vicious beasts dragged him about at will,
and day after day Covey flogged him for allowing the oxen to get away.
Flogging was Covey’s one method of instruction.</p>

<p>At first Frederick tortured himself with questions. They knew he’d
never learned field work. “Old Marse” had sent him to Baltimore when
he was just a pickaninny to look after the favorite grandchild,
rosy-cheeked Tommy. He remembered that exciting trip to Baltimore and
the moment when Mrs. Auld had taken his hand and, leading him to her
little son, had said, “Look, Tommy, here’s your Freddy.”</p>

<p>The little slave had shyly regarded his equally small master. The white
child had smiled, and instantly two small boys became fast friends.
Fred had gone everywhere with Tommy. No watchdog was ever more devoted.</p>

<p>“Freddy’s with Tommy,” the mother would say with assurance.</p>

<p>It was perfectly natural that when Tommy began to read he eagerly
shared the new and fascinating game with his companion. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> mother was
amused at how quickly the black child caught on. She encouraged both
children because she considered the exchange good for Tommy. But one
day she boasted of Freddy’s accomplishment to her husband. Mr. Auld was
horrified.</p>

<p>“It’s against the law,” he stormed. “Learning will spoil the best
nigger in the world. If he learns to read he’ll never be any good as a
slave. The first thing you know he’ll be writing, and then look out. A
writing nigger is dangerous!”</p>

<p>It was difficult for Mrs. Auld to see the curly-headed dark boy as a
menace. His devotion to Tommy was complete. But she was an obedient
wife. Furthermore she had heard dreadful stories of slaves who “went
bad.”</p>

<p>“Oh, well, no harm’s done,” she consoled herself. “Freddy’s just a
child; he’ll soon forget all about this.” And she took pains to see
that no more books or papers fell into his hands.</p>

<p>But Freddy did not forget. The seed was planted. Now he wanted to
know, and he developed a cunning far beyond his years. It was not too
difficult to salvage school books as they were thrown away. He invented
“games” for Tommy and his friends—games which involved reading and
spelling. The white boys slipped chalk from their schoolrooms and drew
letters and words on sidewalks and fences. By the time Tommy was twelve
years old, Freddy could read anything that came his way. And Tommy had
somehow guessed that it was best not to mention such things. Freddy
really was a great help.</p>

<p>The time came when they were all learning speeches from <cite>The
Columbian Orator</cite>. Freddy quite willingly held the book while
they recited Sheridan’s impressive lines on the subject of Catholic
emancipation, Lord Chatham’s speech on the American War, speeches by
the great William Pitt and by Fox. Some things about those speeches
troubled the boys—especially those on the American Revolution.</p>

<p>“Them folks—you mean they <i>fight</i> to be free?” Freddy asked.</p>

<p>The four boys were comfortably sprawled out on the cellar door, well
out of earshot of grownups, but the question made them look over their
shoulders in alarm.</p>

<p>“Hush your big mouth!”</p>

<p>“Slaves fight?” Freddy persisted.</p>

<p>“Wasn’t no slaves!”</p>

<p>“Course not, them was Yankees!”</p>

<p>“I hate Yankees.”</p>

<p>“Everybody hates Yankees!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p>

<p>The crisis had passed. Freddy thoughtfully turned the page and they
started on the next speech.</p>

<p>Then suddenly Tommy was growing up. It was decided to send him away
to school. And so, after seven years, his dark caretaker, no longer
a small, wide-eyed Pickaninny, was sent back to the Eastern Shore
plantation.</p>

<p>“Old Marse” had died. In the division of property—live stock, farm
implements and slaves—Frederick had fallen to Colonel Lloyd’s ward,
Lucille, who had married Captain Thomas Auld. So the half-grown boy
went to a new master, whose place was near the oyster beds of St.
Michaels. The inhabitants of that hamlet, lean and colorless as their
mangy hounds, stared at him as he passed through. They stared at his
coat and eyed the shoes on his feet—good shoes they were, with soles.
They could not know that inside his bundle was an old copy of <cite>The
Columbian Orator</cite>.</p>

<p>The book had brought him into Covey’s hands. At the memory came a
sudden stab of pain, blotting out everything in a wave of nausea. The
trees assumed diabolical forms—hands stretching out to seize him.
Words flaming in the shadows—leaping at him—burning him. What did he
have to do with books? He was a slave—a <i>slave for life</i>.</p>

<p>His new master’s shock and horror had been genuine. Nothing had
prepared him for such a hideous disclosure. Fred, arriving at the
plantation, had been quiet and obedient. Captain Auld appraised this
piece of his wife’s inheritance with satisfaction. The boy appeared to
be strong and bright—a real value. But before he had a chance to show
what he could do, “the Christmas” was upon them and all regular work on
the plantation was suspended.</p>

<p>Throughout the South it was customary for everybody to knock off
from work in the period between Christmas Day and New Year’s. On the
big plantations there were boxing, wrestling, foot-racing, a lot of
dancing and drinking of whiskey. Masters considered it a good thing
for the slaves to “let go” this one time of the year—an exhausting
“safety valve.” All kinds of wild carousing were condoned. Liquor was
brought in by the barrel and freely distributed. Not to be drunk during
the Christmas was disgraceful and was regarded by the masters with
something like suspicion.</p>

<p>Captain Auld’s place was too poor for much feasting; but complete
license was given, and into half-starved bodies were poured jugs of rum
and corn whiskey. Men and women careened around and sang<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> hoarsely,
couples rolled in the ditch, and little boys staggered as they danced,
while the overseers shouted with laughter. Everybody had a “good time.”</p>

<p>All this was new to the boy, Frederick. He had never witnessed such
loose depravity. He was a stranger. Eagerly he inquired for those he
had known as a child. No one could tell him anything. “Old Marse’s”
slaves had been divided, exchanged, sold; and a slave leaves no
forwarding address. The youth had no feeling of kinship with the
plantation folks. He missed Tommy and wondered how he was getting along
without him. On the other hand, the field workers and oyster shuckers
looked upon the newcomer as a “house nigger.”</p>

<p>For a while he watched the dancing and “jubilee beating,” tasted the
burning liquid and then, as the afternoon wore on, slipped away. The
day was balmy, with no suggestion of winter as known in the north.
Frederick had not expected this leisure. He had kept his book hidden,
knowing such things were forbidden. Now, tucking it inside his shirt,
he walked out across the freshly plowed fields.</p>

<p>So it happened that Captain Auld came upon him stretched out under a
tree, his eyes fastened on the book which lay before him on the ground,
his lips moving. The boy was so absorbed that he did not hear his name
called. Only when the Captain’s riding whip came down on his shoulders
did he jump up. It was too late then.</p>

<p>And so they had called in Covey, the slave-breaker. All that was seven
months ago.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The moon over Chesapeake Bay can be very lovely. This night it was
full, and the pine trees pointing to a cloudless sky were bathed in
silver. Far out on the water a boat moved with languid grace, her sails
almost limp, sending a shimmering ripple to the sandy shore.</p>

<p>The dark form painfully crawling between the trees paused at the edge
of the cove. The wide beach out there under the bright moonlight was
fully exposed. Should he risk it?</p>

<p>“Water.” It was a moan. Then he lifted his eyes and saw the ship
sailing away on the water. <i>A free ship going out to sea. Oh,
Jesus!</i></p>

<p>He had heard no sound of footsteps, not the slightest breaking of a
twig, but a low voice close beside him said,</p>

<p>“Rest easy, you! I get water.”</p>

<p>The boy shrank back, staring. A thick tree trunk close by split in two,
and a very black man bent over him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p>

<p>“I Sandy,” the deep voice went on. “Lay down now.”</p>

<p>The chilled blood in Frederick’s broken body began to race. Once more
he lost consciousness. This time he did not fight against it. A friend
was standing by.</p>

<p>The black man moved swiftly. Kneeling beside the still figure he
slipped his hand inside the rags. His face, inscrutable polished ebony,
did not change; but far down inside his eyes a dull light glowed as he
tore away the filthy cloth, sticky and stiff with drying blood. Was he
too late? Satisfied, he eased the twisted limbs on the pine needles and
then hurried down to the river’s edge where he filled the tin can that
hung from a cord over his shoulders.</p>

<p>Frederick opened his eyes when the water touched his lips. He sighed
while Sandy gently wiped the clotted blood from his face and touched
the gaping wound in the thick, matted hair. His voice sounded strange
to his own ears when he asked,“How come you know?”</p>

<p>“This day I work close by Mr. Kemp. Car’line come. Tell me.”</p>

<p>At the name Frederick’s bones seemed to melt and flow in tears.
Something which neither curses, nor kicks, nor blows had touched gave
way. Caroline—Covey’s own slave woman, who bore upon her body the
marks of his sadistic pleasure, who seldom raised her eyes and always
spoke in whispers—Caroline had gone for help.</p>

<p>Sandy did nothing to stay the paroxysm of weeping. He knew it was good,
that healing would come sooner. Sandy was very wise. Up and down the
Eastern Shore it was whispered that Sandy was “voodoo,” that he was
versed in black magic. Sandy was a full-blooded African. He remembered
coming across the “great waters.” He remembered the darkness, the
moans and the awful smells. But he had been fortunate. The chain which
fastened his small ankle to the hold of the ship also held his giant
mother, and she had talked to him. All through the darkness she had
talked to him. The straight, long-limbed woman of the Wambugwe had been
a prize catch. The Bantus of eastern Africa were hard to capture. They
brought the highest prices in the markets. Sandy remembered the rage
of the dealer when his mother was found dead. She had never set foot
on this new land, but all during the long journey she had talked—and
Sandy had not forgotten. He had not forgotten one word.</p>

<p>This mother’s son now sat quietly by on his haunches, waiting. Long ago
he had learned patience. The waters of great rivers move slowly, almost
imperceptibly; big trees of the forest stand still, yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> each year
grow; seasons come in due time; nothing stays the same. Sandy knew.</p>

<p>After a long shuddering sigh Frederick lay silent. Then Sandy sprang up.</p>

<p>“We go by my woman’s house. Come,” he said.</p>

<p>Frederick made an effort to rise. Sandy lifted the boy in his strong
arms and stood him on his feet. For a moment he leaned heavily; then,
with Sandy supporting him, he was conscious of being half-dragged
through the thicket. His body was empty of pain, of thought, of
emotion. Otherwise he might have hesitated. He knew that Sandy was
married to a free colored woman who lived in her own hut on the edge
of the woods. In her case the penalty for sheltering or aiding a
recalcitrant slave might be death. “Free niggers” had no property value
at all. Further, they were a menace in any slaveholding community.
Their lot was often far more precarious than that of plantation hands.
Strangely enough, however, the slaves looked upon such rare and
fortunate beings with almost awesome respect.</p>

<p>On the other side of the woods, where good land overlooked the bay, the
woman, Noma, sat in the opening of her hut gazing at the fire. It was
burning low. The pieces of coke, glowing red in the midst of charred
wood, no longer turned the trees around the clearing to flickering
shadows. On this warm evening the woman had built her fire outdoors
and hung the iron pot over it. The savory odor coming from that pot
hung in the air. It was good, for into it had gone choice morsels put
by during the week of toil. Noma was part Indian. Here on the shore
of the Chesapeake she lived much as her mother’s people had lived for
generations back. She made and sold nets for shad and herring, and she
fished and hunted as well as any man. She was especially skillful at
seine-hauling. Sandy had built the hut, but she planted and tended her
garden. Six days and nights she lived here alone, but on the evening of
the seventh day Sandy always came. Except in isolated communities and
under particularly vicious conditions slaves did little work on Sunday.
Sandy’s master allowed him to spend that one day a week with his wife.
She sat now, her hands folded, waiting for Sandy. He was later than
usual, but he would come.</p>

<p>The fire was almost out when she heard him coming through the brush.
This was so unusual that she started up in alarm. She did not cry out
when he appeared, supporting a bruised and battered form. She acted
instantly to get this helpless being out of sight. They carried<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> the
boy inside the hut and gently deposited him on the soft pile of reeds
in the corner. No time was lost with questions.</p>

<p>Quickly she brought warm water and stripped off the filthy rags. She
bathed his wounds and wrapped a smooth green leaf about his head. She
poured oil on the back, which all along its broad flatness lay open and
raw, an oozing mass. A rib in his side seemed to be broken. They bound
his middle with strips which she tore from her skirts.</p>

<p>Then she brought a steaming bowl. Frederick had had nothing to eat all
day. For the past six months his food had been “stock” and nothing
more. Now he was certain that never had he tasted anything so good
as this succulent mixture. Into the pot the woman had dropped bits
of pork, crabs and oysters, a handful of crisp seaweed and, from her
garden, okra and green peppers and soft, ripe tomatoes. In the hot
ashes she had baked corn pone. Frederick ate greedily, smacking his
lips. Sandy squatted beside him with his own bowl. A burning pine cone
lighted them while they ate, and Sandy smiled at the woman.</p>

<p>But hardly had he finished his bowl when sleep weighted Frederick down.
The soothing oil, the sense of security and now this good hot food were
too much for him. He fell asleep with the half-eaten pone in his hand.</p>

<p>Then the other two went outside. The woman poked the fire, adding a few
sticks. Sandy lay down beside it. He told his wife how that afternoon
he had spied Caroline hiding in the bushes near where he worked. She
acted like a terrified animal, he explained, so he had gone to her. Bit
by bit she told him how Covey had beaten Captain Auld’s boy, striking
his head and kicking him in the side, and left him in the yard. She had
seen the boy crawl away into the woods. Surely this time he would die.</p>

<p>“I do not think he die now. Man die hard.” Sandy thought a moment. “I
help him.”</p>

<p>“How?” Noma’s question took in the encircling woods, the bay. How could
this boy escape? Sandy shook his head.</p>

<p>“He no go now. This one time, he go back.”</p>

<p>The woman waited.</p>

<p>“I hear ’bout this boy—how he read and write. He smart with white
man’s learning.”</p>

<p>“Ah!” said the woman, beginning to understand.</p>

<p>“Tonight I give him the knowing of black men. I call out the strength
in his bones—the bones his mother made for him.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p>

<p>Sandy lay silent looking up through the tall trees at the stars. He
spoke softly.</p>

<p>“I see in him great strength. Now he must know—and each day he will
add to it. When time ripe—he go. That time he not go alone.”</p>

<p>And the woman nodded her head.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was not the dawn flooding the Bay with splendor which woke
Frederick, though the sun did come up like a golden ball and the waters
turned to iridescent glory. Nor was it the crying of crows high up
in the pine trees, nor even the barking of a dog somewhere down on
the beach. Rather was it a gradual awareness of flaming words. Had
he found a book, a new book more wonderful even than his precious
<cite>Columbian Orator</cite>? He didn’t see the words; yet they seemed to
be all around him—living things that carried him down wide rivers and
over mountains and across spreading plains. Then it was people who were
with him—black men, very tall and big and strong. They turned up rich
earth as black as their broad backs; they hunted in forests; some of
them were in cities, whole cities of black folks. For they were free:
they went wherever they wished; they worked as they planned. They even
flew like birds, high in the sky. He was up there with them, looking
down on the earth which seemed so small. He stretched his wings. He was
strong. He could fly. He could fly in a flock of people. Who were they?
He listened closely. That’s it: he was not reading, he was listening.
Somebody was making a speech. But it wasn’t a speech—not like any he
had ever heard—not at all like the preacher in Baltimore.</p>

<p>Frederick opened his eyes. The dream persisted—a shaft of brightness
surrounding a strange crouching figure swaying there beside him, the
flowing sound of words. The light hurt his eyes, but now Frederick
realized it was Sandy. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head
erect, eyes two glowing balls of fire, making low musical sounds. If
they were words, they conveyed no meaning to Frederick. Bright sunshine
poured through an opening in the cabin where a door hung back. Outside
a rooster crowed, and memory jerked Frederick to full consciousness.
He raised his hand to his eyes. The flow of sound ceased abruptly, and
while the boy stared a mask seemed to fall over the man’s shining face,
snuffing out the glow and setting the features in stone. For a moment
the figure was rigid. Then Sandy was on his feet. He spoke tersely.</p>

<p>“Good. You wake. Time you go.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p>

<p>The words were hard and compelling, and Frederick sat up. His body felt
light. His sense of well-being was very real, as real as the smell
of pine which seemed to exude from every board of the bare cabin. He
looked around. The woman was nowhere in sight, but his eyes fell on
a pail of water near by; and then Sandy was back with food. The bowl
was warm in his hands, and Sandy stood silent waiting for him to eat.
Frederick drew a long breath.</p>

<p>He was remembering: black men, men like Sandy, going places! He must
find out—He looked up at Sandy.</p>

<p>“When—When I sleep—You talking.” Sandy remained silent. Frederick
rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. Suddenly he felt a
little foolish. He’d had a silly dream. But—Something drove him to the
question.</p>

<p>“You talk to me?”</p>

<p>“Yes.” The simple statement made him frown.</p>

<p>“But, I do not understand. What you saying? I was asleep.”</p>

<p>A flicker of expression crossed Sandy’s face. When he spoke his voice
was less guttural.</p>

<p>“Body sleep, the hurt body. It sleep and heal. But you,” Sandy leaned
over and with his long forefinger touched Frederick lightly on the
chest, “you not sleep.”</p>

<p>“But I—How could I—?” Before the steady gaze of those calm
eyes Frederick’s protest died. He did not understand, but he was
remembering. After a moment he asked simply, “Where am I going?”</p>

<p>This was what it meant. Sandy had a plan for him to run away. Well,
he would try it. He was not afraid. Freedom sang in his blood. And so
Sandy’s reply caught him like a blow.</p>

<p>“Back. Back to Covey’s.”</p>

<p>“No! No!”</p>

<p>All the horror of the past six months was in his cry; the bowl dropped
to the floor; shivering, he covered his face.</p>

<p>The pressure of Sandy’s hand upon his shoulder recalled him. The
terror gradually receded and was replaced by something which seemed to
surround and buoy him up. He could not have told why. He only knew he
was not afraid. But he wanted to live. He must live. He looked up at
Sandy.</p>

<p>“Covey will kill me—beat me to death.” There was no terror in his
voice now, merely an explanation. Sandy shook his head.</p>

<p>“No.” He was picking up the thick bowl. It had not broken, but its
contents had spilled over the scrubbed floor. Sandy scraped up the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>
bits of food and refilled the bowl from an earthen erode on the hearth.
Frederick sat watching him. Sandy observed how he made no move—just
waited. And his heart was satisfied. <i>This boy will do</i>, he
thought. <i>He has patience—patience and endurance. Strength will
come.</i> Once more he handed the bowl to Frederick.</p>

<p>“Eat now, boy,” he said.</p>

<p>And Frederick ate, emptying the bowl. The food was good and the water
Sandy gave him from the pail was fresh and cool. Frederick wondered
where the woman had gone. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to thank
her before—he went back. He said, “I’m sorry I dropped the bowl.”</p>

<p>Then Sandy reached inside the coarse shirt he was wearing and drew out
a small pouch—something tied up in an old piece of cloth.</p>

<p>“Now, hear me well.”</p>

<p>Frederick set the bowl down.</p>

<p>“No way you can go now. Wise man face what he must. Big tree bend in
strong wind and not break. This time no good. Later day you go. You go
far.”</p>

<p>Frederick bowed his head. He believed Sandy’s words, but at the thought
of Covey’s lash his flesh shivered in spite of the bright promise.
Sandy extended the little bag.</p>

<p>“Covey beat you no more. Wear this close to body—all the time. No man
ever beat you.”</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart sank. He made no move to take the bag. His voice
faltered.</p>

<p>“But—but Sandy, that’s—that’s voodoo. I don’t believe in charms.
I’m—I’m a Christian.”</p>

<p>Sandy was very still. He gazed hard into the boy’s gaunt face below the
bloodstained bandage wrapped about his head; he saw the shadow in the
wide, clear eyes; he thought of the lacerated back and broken rib, and
his own eyes grew very warm. He spoke softly.</p>

<p>“You be very young.”</p>

<p>He untied the little bag and carefully shook out its contents into the
palm of his hand—dust, fine as powder, a bit of shriveled herb and
several smooth, round pebbles. Then he held out the upturned hand to
Frederick.</p>

<p>“Look now!” he said. “Soil of Africa—come cross the sea close by my
mother’s breast.”</p>

<p>Holding his breath Frederick bent his head. It was as if a great hand
lay upon his heart.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p>

<p>“And here”—Sandy’s long fingers touched the withered
fragment—“seaweed, flowered on great waters, waters of far-off lands,
waters of many lands.”</p>

<p>Holding Frederick’s wrist, Sandy carefully emptied the bits upon the
boy’s palm, then gently closed his fingers.</p>

<p>“A thousand years of dust in one hand! Dust of men long gone, men who
lived so you live. Your dust.”</p>

<p>He handed Frederick the little bag. And Frederick took it reverently.
With the utmost care, lest one grain of dust be lost, he emptied his
palm into it. Then, drawing the cord tight, he placed the pouch inside
his rags, fastening the cord securely. He stood up, and his head was
clear. Again the black man thought, <i>He’ll do!</i></p>

<p>The boy stood speechless. There were things he wanted to say, things
he wanted to promise. This day, this spot, this one bright morning was
important. This man had saved his life, and suddenly he knew that his
life was important. He laid his hand on the black man’s arm.</p>

<p>“I won’t be forgettin’,” he said.</p>

<p>They walked together out into the morning and stood a moment on the
knoll, looking down at the bay. Then Frederick turned his back and
walked toward the trees. At the edge of the woods he stopped and waved
his hand, then disappeared in the hidden lane.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Two"><span class="smcap">Chapter Two</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>The road winds about Chesapeake Bay</i><br>
</p>


<p>The roof of the colorless house needed mending. Its sagging made the
attic ceiling slope at a crazy angle. Rainy weather—it always started
in the middle of the night—it leaked, and Amelia had to pull her bed
out onto the middle of the floor. The bed was a narrow iron affair, not
too heavy to move. Amelia never complained. She was grateful for the
roof her sister’s husband had put over her head.</p>

<p>Edward Covey was considered a hard man. Amelia’s neighbors could barely
hide their pity when she announced that she was going to live with her
sister.</p>

<p>“You mean the one who married Ed Covey?”</p>

<p>Then they sort of coughed and wished they hadn’t asked the question.
After all, where else could Tom Kemp’s poor widow go? Lem Drake chewed
a long time without a word after his wife told him the news. Then he
spat.</p>

<p>“’Melia never did no harm to nobody,” he said.</p>

<p>“Old devil!”</p>

<p>Lem knew his wife was referring to Edward Covey. Otherwise he would
have reproved her. Wasn’t fitting talk for a woman.</p>

<p>So Amelia Kemp came down to the Bay to live in Edward Covey’s house.
Amelia was still bewildered. At thirty, she felt her life was over.
Seemed like she hadn’t ought to take Tom’s death so hard. She’d known
her husband was going to die: everybody else did. But Tom had kept
on pecking at his land up there on the side of the hill. His pa had
died, his ma had died, his brother had died. Now he was dead—all of
them—pecking at the land.</p>

<p>Edward Covey was different. He was “getting ahead.” Her sister<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>
Lucy had stressed that difference from the moment of her arrival.
Unnecessarily, Amelia was sure; because in spite of her heavy heart
she had been properly impressed. What almost shook the widow out of
her lethargy was her sister Lucy. She wouldn’t have known her at all.
True, they had not seen each other for years, and they were both older.
Amelia knew that hill women were apt to be pretty faded by the time
they were thirty-four. But Lucy, living in the low country, looked like
an old hag. Amelia was shocked at her own thoughts.</p>

<p>“Mr. Covey’s a God-fearing man.”</p>

<p>These were almost her sister’s first words, and Amelia had stared at
her rather stupidly. All of her thoughts kept running back to Tom,
it seemed. Amelia was sure her sister hadn’t meant to imply that Tom
hadn’t been a “God-fearing” man. Though, as a matter of fact, she was a
little vague in her own mind. She’d never heard Tom <i>say</i> anything
about fearing God. He’d never been very free with talk about God.</p>

<p>That was before she met Mr. Covey. She had come up on the boat to St.
Michaels where, on the dock, one of Edward Covey’s “people” was waiting
for her. This in itself was an event. There weren’t any slaves in her
county, and she felt pretty elegant being driven along the road with an
obsequious black man holding the reins. After a time they had turned
off the highway onto a sandy lane which carried them between fields
jutting out into the bay. She could see the place from some distance,
and in the dusk the sprawling building with barn and outhouses loomed
like a great plantation manor. This impression hardly survived the
first dusk, but Covey’s passion to “get ahead” was plain to see.</p>

<p>Very soon Amelia Kemp was glad that she had been given a bed in the
attic. The first few evenings, climbing up the narrow ladder from
the lower floor, she had wondered about several rooms opening out on
the second floor. They seemed to be empty. Soon she blessed her good
fortune, and it wasn’t long before she became convinced the idea had
been her sister’s—not Covey’s.</p>

<p>Only when she lowered the attic trap door could she rid herself of
him. Then she couldn’t see the cruel, green eyes; she didn’t feel him
creeping up behind her or hear his voice. It was his voice particularly
that she wanted to shut out, his voice coming out of the corner of his
mouth, his voice that so perfectly matched the short, hairy hands. At
the thought of the terrible things she had seen him do with those hands
her flesh chilled.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p>

<p>Lucy had married Covey down in town where she had gone to work. He had
not come to her home to meet her folks. So Amelia didn’t know about
the “slave-breaking.” When she saw the slaves about, she assumed that
her brother-in-law was more prosperous than she had imagined; and that
first evening she could not understand why her sister was so worn.</p>

<p>Her education began the first morning, when they called her before
dawn. She was used to getting up early, only she’d thought folks with
slaves to do their work could lie abed till after sun-up. Though she
dressed hastily and hurried downstairs, it was quite evident she was
keeping them waiting in the big room. The stench of unwashed bodies
stopped her in the doorway.</p>

<p>Her first impression was one of horror. Covey seated at the table, a
huge book spread open in front of him, thrust his round head in her
direction and glared wolfishly. The oil lamp’s glare threw him into
sharp relief. The light touched Lucy’s white face and the figure of
another man, larger than Covey, who gave her a flat, malignant stare.
But behind them the room was filled with shadows frozen into queer and
grotesque shapes.</p>

<p>“You’re late, Sister Amelia.” Her brother-in-law’s tone was benign.
“This household starts the day with worship—all our big family.”</p>

<p>He waved his arm, taking in all the room. A ripple of movement
undulated the darkness, quivered, and then was gone.</p>

<p>“I’m so sorry,” Amelia managed to murmur as she groped her way to a
chair. Gasps came from behind her. She dared not turn around, and sat
biting her lips. Covey seemed to hear nothing. He was peering at the
book, his short, stubby finger tracing each word as he began to read
slowly and painfully:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good; for his mercy endureth for ever.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy;</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">And gathered them out of the lands, from the east, and from the west, from the north, and from the south.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way; they found no city to dwell in.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Then they cried unto the Lord in their trouble and he delivered them out of their distresses.</div>
<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>
    <div class="verse indent0">And he led them forth by the right way, that they might go to a city of habitation.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Praise the Lord!” added Covey and closed the Bible with a heavy thump.
“Now then, Fred, lead us in song.”</p>

<p>Amelia heard the choked gasp behind her. She could feel the struggle
that cut off the panting breath. Waiting was unbearable.</p>

<p>“You, Fred!” The command jerked a cry from the shadows. A memory
flashed across Amelia’s mind. <i>Sid Green lashing his half-crazed
horse, which had fallen in the ditch—Tom grabbing the whip and
knocking Sid down.</i></p>

<p>Then a strained voice began to quiver. It missed several beats at
first but gathered strength until Amelia knew it was a boy behind her,
singing. In a moment, from Covey’s twisted mouth there came uneven,
off-key notes, then Lucy’s reed-like treble sounded. From the shadows
the music picked up, strange and wild and haunting. At first Amelia
thought this was an unfamiliar chant, then she recognized the rolling
words:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“O for a thousand tongues to sing</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">My great Redeem’s praise,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The glories of my God and King,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The triumphs of his grace.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>When the music died away Covey fell on his knees, his face lifted
beside the oil lamp. His words poured forth with a passion and fervor
which pounded like hammers in the stifling gloom. He groveled in
shameless nakedness, turning all the hideousness of his fear upon
their bowed heads. Then he rose, face shining and picking up a heavy,
many-pronged cowhide from the corner, drove the shuffling figures out
into the gray morning. Amelia remembered the cold: she had shivered in
the hallway.</p>

<p>The only slave left to help her sister was a slow, silent creature who
now moved toward the kitchen.</p>

<p>“We’ve et. The—the—” Lucy was speaking with a hesitation which Amelia
recalled later. “The—woman will show you. Then you can help me with
the renderin’.”</p>

<p>It was warm in the big kitchen. A smoking lamp hanging from the ceiling
swayed fretfully as the door closed and Lucy threw a piece of wood on
the fire. Remains of a hasty meal were scattered upon the table.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p>

<p>“Clean up this mess and give Miss Amelia some breakfast.”</p>

<p>Amelia saw her sister shove the woman forward as she spoke. The tight
hardness in her voice fell strangely upon Amelia’s ears. Without
another word Lucy disappeared into the pantry.</p>

<p>Amelia was afraid. She suddenly realized that it had been fear that
had first stopped her on the threshold, and nothing had taken place
to dissipate that fear—not the scripture reading, not the singing,
not the prayer. She was afraid now of this silent, dark woman, whose
face remained averted, whose step was noiseless. Surely some ominous
threat lay behind the color of such—such creatures. Irrelevantly she
remembered Tom’s black horse—the one on which he had come courting.
Amelia made a peremptory gesture.</p>

<p>“I’ll eat here!” Fear hardened her voice. She would eat like a grand
lady being served by a nigger.</p>

<p>And then the woman turned and looked at her. She was not old. Her brown
skin was firm and smooth, her quivering mouth was young, and her large
eyes, set far apart, were liquid shadows.</p>

<p><i>A man could drown himself in those shadows.</i> The thought was
involuntary, unwilled, horrible—and instantly checked—but it added to
her fear.</p>

<p>She picked up bits of information throughout the long morning, while
Lucy stirred grease sizzling in deep vats, dipped tallow candles and
sewed strips of stiff, coarse cloth. The work about the house seemed
endless, and Lucy drove herself from one task to another. Amelia
wondered why she didn’t leave more for the slave woman. Finally she
asked. The vehement passion in Lucy’s voice struck sharply.</p>

<p>“The lazy cow!” Then, after a pause she added, “She’s a breeder.” Her
lips snapped shut.</p>

<p>“A breeder? What’s that? Does she have some special work?”</p>

<p>Lucy laughed shortly.</p>

<p>“Ain’t they no niggers up home yet?” she asked.</p>

<p>Amelia shook her head.</p>

<p>Lucy sighed. It was a sound of utter weariness.</p>

<p>“Mr. Covey says you can’t git ahead without niggers. You jus’ can’t.”</p>

<p>“But you said—” began Amelia.</p>

<p>“Mr. Covey bought her,” Lucy explained with a sort of dogged grimness,
“for—for more—stock. Mr. Covey’s plannin’ on buyin’ all this land.
Niggers come high. You wouldn’s believe what Mr. Covey<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> paid for that
there Caroline.” Pride puckered her lips like green persimmon.</p>

<p>Amelia swallowed. Her mouth felt very dry. She cleared her throat.</p>

<p>“Well, he’s makin’ a good start.”</p>

<p>“Oh, them!” Lucy bit her thread. “They ain’t all hissen. He takes
slaves over from the plantations hereabouts to—train.”</p>

<p>“Then he—”</p>

<p>A cry of stark terror coming from the yard brought Amelia up in alarm.
Lucy calmly listened a moment.</p>

<p>“Sounds like Mr. Covey’s having to whop that Fred again,” she said.
“He’s a bad one!”</p>

<p>What Amelia was hearing now bleached her face. Lucy’s composed
indifference rebuked her. She tried to control the trembling of her
lips.</p>

<p>“You mean—the boy—who sang this morning?”</p>

<p>“That’s him—stubborn as a mule. Reckon that singin’ will be a mite
weaker tomorrow.”</p>

<p>And Mrs. Covey giggled.</p>

<p>The day unwound like a scroll. By mid-afternoon fatigue settled all
along Amelia’s limbs. Outside the sun shone brightly—perfect February
weather for early plowing. The kitchen door stood open to the sunshine,
and Amelia paused a moment looking out toward the bay.</p>

<p>A small child two or three years old crawled out from under a bush and
started trotting across the littered back yard. Amelia stood watching
her. Beneath the tangled mass of brown curls the little face was
streaked with dirt. It was still too cool for this tot to run about
barefoot, Amelia thought, looking around for the mother. She held out
her hand and the child stopped, staring at her with wide eyes.</p>

<p>“Well, little one, where do you come from?” There was no answering
smile on the child’s face. In that moment Amelia heard a swift step
behind her.</p>

<p>“Don’t touch that nigger!” Lucy’s voice cracked like a whip. Her face
was distorted with fury. Amelia saw the dark woman, bending over a tub
in the corner, lift her head. Lucy leaped at her and struck her full in
the face.</p>

<p>“Get that brat out of here,” she screamed. “Get her back where she
belongs. Get her out!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span></p>

<p>With one movement the woman was across the floor and outside the door.
She swept up the child in her arm and, holding her close, ran behind
the barn.</p>

<p>“How dare she! How dare she!”</p>

<p>Lucy was shaking as with an ague—she seemed about to fall. Still
Amelia did not understand.</p>

<p>“But, Lucy—what are you saying? That child’s white.”</p>

<p>“Shut up, you fool!” Her sister turned on her. “You fool! It’s her’s.
It’s her’s, I tell you. And what is she? She’s a nigger—a filthy,
stinking nigger!”</p>

<p>She began to cry, and Amelia held her close, remembering the large
green eyes, set in the little girl’s pinched face.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Nothing much was happening in Maryland that spring of 1834. In Virginia
they hanged Nat Turner. John Brown, on a wave of prosperity, was making
money in his Ohio tannery. William Lloyd Garrison was publishing the
<cite>Liberator</cite> in Boston, and a man named Lovejoy was trying to
start an Abolitionist paper out West, trying both Kansas and Ohio. But
Maryland had everything under control.</p>

<p>The Coveys had no neighbors. The farm, surrounded on three sides with
water, lay beyond a wide tract of straggling pine trees. The trees
on Covey’s land had been cut down, and the unpainted buildings were
shaken and stained by heavy northwest winds. From her attic window
Amelia could see Poplar Island, covered with a thick black forest,
and Keat Point, stretching its sandy, desert-like shores out into the
foam-crested bay. It was a desolate scene.</p>

<p>The rains were heavy that spring, and Covey stayed in the fields until
long after dark, urging the slaves on with words or blows. He left
nothing to Hughes, his cousin and overseer.</p>

<p>“Niggers drop off to sleep minute you turn your back,” he groaned.
“Have to keep right behind ’em.”</p>

<p>Amelia battled with mud tracked from one end of the house to the other.</p>

<p>Then came summer with its oppressive heat and flashing thunder storms
that whipped the waters to roaring fury.</p>

<p>“Family” prayers were dispensed with only on Sunday mornings.
Regardless of the weather, Mr. Covey and his wife went to church.
It was regrettable that the slaves had no regular services. Big
plantations could always boast of at least one slave preacher. Mr.
Covey hadn’t reached that status yet. He was on his way. He observed
the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> Sabbath as a day of rest. Nobody had to go to the fields, and
nothing much had to be done—except the cooking, of course.</p>

<p>So Amelia could lie in bed this Sunday morning in August. All night
the attic had been like a bake-oven. Just before dawn it had cooled a
little, and Amelia lay limp. By raising herself on her elbow she could
see through a slit in the sloping roof. White sails skimmed across the
shining surface of the bay. Amelia sighed. This morning the white ships
depressed her. They were going somewhere.</p>

<p>The heat, she thought, closing her eyes, had made things worse than
usual. Mr. Covey would certainly kill that Fred—that is, if he wasn’t
already dead. Well, why didn’t he do his work? She had thought at
first the boy had intelligence, but here of late he’d lost every spark
of sense—just slunk around, looking glum and mean, not paying any
attention to what was told him. Then yesterday—pretending to be sick!</p>

<p>“Reckon I ’bout broke every bone in his body,” Mr. Covey had grunted
with satisfaction.</p>

<p>“Captain Auld won’t like it,” Lucy warned.</p>

<p>That made Mr. Covey mad as hops. Lucy kept out of his way the rest of
the evening. Amelia saw him twist Caroline’s arm till she bent double.
That wench! <i>She</i> wasn’t so perk these days either—sort of
dragged one leg behind her.</p>

<p><i>Well</i>, Amelia thought, swinging her own bony shanks over the side of
the bed, <i>I’m glad they didn’t send the hounds after him</i>. He was
sulking somewhere in the woods. But Mr. Covey said the dogs would tear
him to pieces. <i>A bad way to die—even for a nigger.</i></p>

<p>“He’ll come back,” Covey had barked. “A nigger always comes crawlin’
back to his eatin’ trough.”</p>

<p>Amelia left the cotton dress open at the neck. Maybe it wouldn’t be so
hot today. Lucy was already down, her eyes red in a drawn face. Her
sister guessed that she had spent a sleepless night, tossing in the big
bed, alone. Caroline was nowhere in sight.</p>

<p>When he appeared, dressed in his Sunday best, Mr. Covey was smiling
genially. This one day he could play his favorite rôle—master of a
rolling plantation, leisurely, gracious, served by devoted blacks. He
enjoyed Sunday.</p>

<p>“Not going to church, Amelia?” he asked pleasantly as he rose from the
table.</p>

<p>Amelia was apologetic. “No, Mr. Covey, I—I don’t feel up to it this
mornin’. Got a mite of headache.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p>

<p>“Now that’s too bad, Sister. It’s this awful heat. Better lie down a
while.” He turned to his wife. “Come, my dear, we don’t want to be
late. You dress and I’ll see if Bill has hitched up.” Picking his
teeth, he strolled out to the yard.</p>

<p>Amelia started scraping up the dishes.</p>

<p>“Leave ’em be.” Lucy spoke crossly. “Reckon Caroline can do something.”</p>

<p>So Amelia was out front and saw Fred marching up the road! Funny, but
that’s exactly the way it seemed. He wasn’t just walking. She was
digging around her dahlias, hoping against hope they would show a
little life. She had brought the bulbs from home and set them out in
front of the house. Of course they weren’t growing, but Amelia kept at
them. Sometimes dahlias surprised you.</p>

<p>She straightened up and stared. It was Fred, all right, raising a dust
out there in the road.</p>

<p>Mr. and Mrs. Covey were coming down the porch steps just as Fred swung
in the gate. He kept right on coming. Poor Lucy’s mouth sagged open,
but Mr. Covey smiled like a saint.</p>

<p>“Well, now, you’re back, and no worse for wear.” He paused, taking in
the discolored bandage and the spattered tatters. He spoke impatiently.
“Get yourself cleaned up. This is Sunday.” The boy stepped aside. Mr.
Covey and his wife moved toward their buggy. As Fred turned to go
around back, Mr. Covey called to him. “Oh, yes, round up those pigs
that got into the lower lot last night. That’s a good boy.”</p>

<p>Then the master leaned over, waved his hand at Amelia and drove away,
sitting beside his good wife. It made a pretty picture! Amelia could
see Fred, standing at the side of the house, facing the road. There was
a funny look on his face.</p>

<p>Amelia’s thoughts kept going back to the way he’d come marching up the
road. Her mind kept weaving all sorts of queer fancies. Did slaves
really think like people? Covey had beaten him half to death. How could
he walk so? Just showed what a thick skin they had. And that great head
of his! She hadn’t noticed how big it was till this morning.</p>

<p>Covey’s manner didn’t fool her a mite. He never flogged slaves on
Sunday, but he’d sure take it out of that boy in the morning.</p>

<p>She woke up Monday morning thinking about the look on Fred’s face and
hurried downstairs. Seemed like Mr. Covey cut the prayers short. Maybe
he had something on his mind, too. As they started out,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> Amelia heard
him tell Fred to clean out the barn. That meant he wouldn’t be going to
the fields with the others. Covey lingered a few minutes in the house,
tightening the handle on his lash.</p>

<p>Amelia had always tried to get away from the awful floggings. Lucy said
she was chicken-hearted. But this morning she was filled with an odd
excitement. She wanted to see. She decided against going out in the
yard. With a quick look at Lucy’s bent back, she slipped out of the
kitchen and almost ran up the stairs. Her attic window overlooked the
yard.</p>

<p>It was fully light now. Covey and the overseer were standing a few
feet from the back door. Hughes held a looped cord in his hand and
was showing something to Covey, who listened closely. Amelia could
see them plain enough, but they were talking too low for her to hear.
Then Fred swung the barn doors back and fastened them. Both men turned
and watched him. He certainly was going about his job with a will. He
wasn’t wasting any time standing around. Evidently he was getting ready
to lead out the oxen.</p>

<p>She saw Hughes start away, stop and say something. Then she heard
Covey’s, “Go ahead. I’ll manage.”</p>

<p>Her attention was attracted by the way Fred was handling the oxen. They
were ornery beasts, but he didn’t seem afraid of them at all. Covey
too was watching. Amelia couldn’t see what he had done with his lash.
He held in his hand the cord Hughes had handed him. Fred seemed to be
having some trouble with one of the oxen. He couldn’t fasten something.
He backed away, turned and in a moment started climbing up the ladder
to the hayloft.</p>

<p>The moment the boy’s back was turned, Covey streaked across the yard.
The movement was so unexpected and so stealthy that Amelia cried out
under her breath. She saw what he was going to do even before he
grabbed Fred by the leg and brought him down upon the hard ground with
a terrible jar. He was pulling the loop over the boy’s legs when, with
a sudden spring, the lithe body had leaped at the man, a hand at his
throat! Amelia gripped the ledge with her hands and leaned out. They
were both on the ground now, the dark figure on top. The boy loosened
his fingers. Amelia could see Covey’s upturned face. He was puffing,
but it was bewilderment, not pain, that made his face so white and
queer. The boy sprang up and stood on his guard while Covey scrambled
to his feet.</p>

<p>“You ain’t resistin’, you scoundrel?” Covey shouted in a hoarse voice.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p>

<p>And Frederick—body crouched, fist raised—said politely, “Yessir.” He
was breathing hard.</p>

<p>Covey made a move to grab him, and Fred sidestepped. Covey let out a
bellow that brought Lucy running to the door.</p>

<p>“Hughes! Help! Hughes!”</p>

<p>Amelia saw Hughes, halfway across the field, start running back.
Meanwhile the boy held his ground, not striking out but ready to defend
himself against anything Covey could do.</p>

<p><i>The slave boy has gone mad!</i> She’d heard of slaves “going bad.”
She ought to go down and help. They’d all be murdered in their beds.
But she couldn’t leave her window. She couldn’t take her eyes off the
amazing sight—a dumb slave standing firmly on his feet, his head up.
Standing so, he was almost as tall as Covey.</p>

<p>Now Hughes came bolting into the yard and rushed Fred. He met a kick in
the stomach that sent him staggering away in pain. Covey stared after
his overseer stupidly. The nigger had kicked a white man! Covey dodged
back—needlessly, for Fred had not moved toward him. He stood quietly
waiting, ready to ward off any attack. Covey eyed him.</p>

<p>“You goin’ to keep on resistin’?”</p>

<p>There was something plaintive about Covey’s question. Amelia had a
crazy impulse to laugh. She leaned far out the window. She must hear.
The boy’s voice reached her quite distinctly—firm, positive tones.</p>

<p>“Yessir. You can’t beat me no mo’—never no mo’.”</p>

<p>Now Covey was frightened. He looked around: his cowhide—a
club—anything. Hughes, at one side, straightened up.</p>

<p>“I’ll get the gun,” he snarled.</p>

<p>Covey gave a start, but he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.</p>

<p>“It’s in the front hall.”</p>

<p>Amelia saw Hughes coming toward the house; his face was livid. Then she
heard Lucy’s shrill voice and Hughes’s curses. She guessed what Lucy
was saying—that they dare not kill Captain Auld’s slave.</p>

<p>The boy had not moved. He was watching Covey, whose eyes had fallen on
a knotty piece of wood lying just outside the stable door. He began
easing his way toward it. Amelia’s breath was coming in panting gulps.
Her knees were shaking.</p>

<p>Her fingers felt numb on the splintery wood of the ladder. She nearly
slipped. Her legs almost doubled up under her when she leaned over the
banister, peering down into the hall below. She couldn’t see the gun,
but she could still hear Hughes’s angry voice out back.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p>

<p>Shadows seemed to clutch at her skirts, the stairs cracked and creaked
as she crept down, while the thick, heavy smell that lurked in the hall
nearly sickened her. Her cold, shaking fingers clutched the barrel
of the gun standing upright in the corner, and she somehow managed
to get up the stairs before the door at the back of the hall opened.
She crouched against the wall, listening, not daring now to climb her
ladder. She heard Hughes clumping about below, his heavy boots kicking
objects aside. She heard him curse, at first softly, then with a roar.
A few feet away a door stood partly open. Holding the gun close, she
tiptoed along the wall and into one of the rooms.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Frederick knew that Hughes had gone for a gun, but that was
not as important as Covey’s cautious approach to the thick, knotty
stick of wood.</p>

<p><i>He’ll knock me down with it</i>, Frederick thought. He breathed
evenly, knowing exactly what he was going to do. The moment Covey
leaned over to grab the stick, the boy leaped forward, seized his shirt
collar with both hands and brought the man down, stretched out full
length in the cow dung. Covey grabbed the boy’s arms and yelled lustily.</p>

<p>Feet, suddenly no longer tired, were hastening toward the back yard.
The news was spreading.</p>

<p>Bill, another of Covey’s “trainees,” came around the house. He
stared—open-mouthed.</p>

<p>“Grab him! Bill! Grab him!” Covey shouted.</p>

<p>Bill’s feet were rooted to the ground, his face a dumb mask.</p>

<p>“Whatchu say, Massa Covey, whatchu say?”</p>

<p>“Get hold of him! Grab him!”</p>

<p>Bill’s eyes were round. He swallowed, licking out his tongue.</p>

<p>“I gotta get back to mah plowin’, Massa. Look! Hit’s sun-up.” With a
limp hand he indicated the sun shooting its beams over the eastern
woods and turned vaguely away.</p>

<p>“Come back here, you fool! He’s killing me!”</p>

<p>A flash of interest flickered across the broad, flat face. Bill took
several steps forward. Frederick fixed him with a baleful gaze and
spoke through clenched teeth.</p>

<p>“Don’t you put your hands on me!”</p>

<p>Bill sagged. “My God, ye crazy coon, I ain’t a-gonna tech ye!” And he
shuffled around the barn.</p>

<p>Covey cursed. He could not free himself. The boy was like a slippery
octopus, imprisoning him with his arms and legs.</p>

<p>Frederick was panting now. His heart sank when he saw Caroline.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> She
must have been milking in the shed, for she carried a brimming pail.
Covey could make her help him. She really was a powerful woman, and
Frederick knew she could master him easily now, exhausted as he was.</p>

<p>Covey, too, saw her and called out confidently. Caroline stopped. She
set down the pail of milk. Covey relaxed, an evil grin on his face.</p>

<p>And then—Caroline laughed! It wasn’t loud or long; but Covey sucked in
his breath at the sound.</p>

<p>“Caroline! Hold him!” The iron in his voice was leaking out.</p>

<p>Caroline’s words were low in her throat—rusty because so seldom used.
Two words came.</p>

<p>“Who? Me?”</p>

<p>She picked up the pail of milk and walked toward the house, dragging
her leg a little.</p>

<p>Frederick felt Covey go limp. And in that moment he sprang up, himself
grabbed the knotty chunk of wood and backed away. Covey rolled over on
to his side. He was not hurt, but he was dazed. When he did get to his
feet, swaying a bit, the yard seemed crowded with dark, silent forms.
Actually only four or five slaves, hearing the outcries, had come
running and now showed the whites of their eyes from a safe distance.
But Covey’s world was tottering. He must do something.</p>

<p>The boy stood there, holding the stick. Now Covey went toward him.
Frederick saw the defeat on his face, and he made no move to strike
him. So Covey was able to take him by the shoulders and shake him
mightily.</p>

<p>“Now then, you wretch,” he said in a loud voice, “get on with your
work! I wouldn’t ’a’ whipped you half so hard if you hadn’t resisted.
That’ll teach you!”</p>

<p>When he dropped his hands and turned around, the dark figures had
slipped away. He stood a moment blinking up at the sun. It was going
to be another hot day. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating face,
leaving a smear of barnyard filth on his cheek. The kitchen door was
closed. <i>Just like that skunk, Hughes, to go off and leave me!</i>
He’d send him packing off the place before night. But he didn’t want to
go into the house now. He was tired. Covey walked over to the well and
stood looking out toward the bay.</p>

<p>Frederick once more started up the ladder. He would get some sweet,
fresh hay for the oxen. Then he could lead them out.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Three"><span class="smcap">Chapter Three</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>An old man drives his mule</i><br>
</p>


<p>When Covey came down sick right after Hughes was fired, his wife was
certain things would go to rack and ruin. Strangely enough, they did
not. The stock got fed; the men left for the fields every morning; wood
was cut and piled, and the never-ending job of picking cotton went on.</p>

<p>Amelia thought she’d never seen anything prettier. Cotton didn’t grow
up in the hills, and now the great green stalks with their bulbs of
silver fascinated her. With no more floggings going on out back, she
began to notice things. She found herself watching the rhythm of a
slave’s movements at work, a black arm plunged into the gleaming mass.
She even caught the remnants of a song floating back to her. There was
peace in the air. And the boy Fred went scampering about like a colt.</p>

<p>Inside the house, Covey groaned and cursed. After a time he sat silent,
huddled in a chair, staring at the wall.</p>

<p>He’d sent Hughes packing, all right. But there had been hell to
pay first. Hughes had been all set to go in town and bring out the
authorities. The nigger had struck him, he blubbered, and should get
the death penalty for it. The young mule certainly had given his
dear cousin an awful wallop. Had Covey let himself go, he would have
grinned. But, after all, it was unthinkable for a black to strike a
white man. <i>The bastard!</i> But had it got about that he, Covey,
couldn’t handle a loony strippling—not a day over sixteen—he would be
ruined. Nobody would ever give him another slave to break. So Hughes’s
mouth had to be shut. He was willing to go, but he had forced a full
month’s salary out of Covey. The worst thing was Hughes’s taking the
gun along in the bargain!</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p>

<p>Hughes swore he couldn’t find the gun. But Covey knew he had cleaned
that gun just the day before and stood it right behind the hall door.
That’s where he always kept it, and he knew it was there. No use
telling him one of the boys took it. A black won’t touch a gun with a
ten-foot pole. No, it had gone off with Hughes, and he’d just have to
get himself another one next time he went to Baltimore.</p>

<p>By now Covey had convinced himself that most of his troubles stemmed
from Hughes. Take the matter of Captain Auld’s boy. After Hughes left,
he’d handled him without a mite of trouble.</p>

<p>Frederick for his part had tasted freedom—and it was good. “When a
slave cannot be flogged,” he wrote many years later, “he is more than
half free.”</p>

<p>So it was as a free man that he reasoned with himself. He would prove
to Covey—and through him to Captain Auld—that he could do whatever
job they assigned. When he did not understand, he asked questions.
Frederick was not afraid. He was not afraid of anything. Furthermore,
his fellow-workers looked up to him with something like awe. Until now
he had been just another link in the shackles that bound them to the
mountain of despair. Their hearts had been squeezed of pity, as their
bodies had been squeezed of blood and their minds of hope. But they had
survived to witness a miracle! They told it over and over, while they
bent their backs and swung their arms. They whispered it at night. Old
men chewed their toothless gums over it, and babies sucked it in with
their mothers’ milk.</p>

<p>The word was passed along, under cover, secret, unsuspected, until all
up and down the Eastern Shore, in field and kitchen, they knew what had
happened in “ole man Covey’s back yard on ’at mawnin’!” And memories
buried beneath avalanches of wretchedness began to stir.</p>

<p>Something heard somewhere, someone who “got through!” A
trail—footprints headed “no’th”—toward a star! And as they talked,
eyes that had glazed over with dullness cleared, shoulders straightened
beneath the load, and weary, aching limbs no longer dragged.</p>

<p>It was a good fall. Even Covey, forcing himself through the days, had
to admit that. Crops had done well, and the land he had put in cotton
promised much. Undoubtedly cotton was the thing. Next year he would buy
a gin and raise nothing else. But now it was a big job to weigh, bale,
and haul his cotton into town.</p>

<p>Covey’s strength came back slowly. He had Tom Slater in to help him
for a spell, but Tom wasn’t much good at figuring; and figuring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> was
necessary, if he didn’t want those town slickers to cheat him out of
every cent.</p>

<p>One Sunday evening he was sitting out front, waiting for it to get dark
so he could go to bed. Around the house came Amelia, trowel in hand.
Covey didn’t mind Amelia’s flowers. That little patch of purple was
right nice. But Amelia had hardly knelt down when from out back came
the boy Fred. He stopped at a respectful distance and bowed.</p>

<p>“You sent for me, Miss Amelia?”</p>

<p>Covey sucked his tongue with approval. They had said this nigger was
house-broke. He sure had the manners. Amelia had jumped up and was
talking brightly.</p>

<p>“Yes, Fred. I wonder if you can’t fix that old gate. Even with our
netting this yard has no protection as long as the gate’s no good.”</p>

<p>She indicated the worm-eaten boards sagging between two rotten posts.
Fred turned and studied them a moment before replying.</p>

<p>“Miss Amelia,” he said slowly, “I better make you a new gate.”</p>

<p><i>Damn!</i> thought Covey.</p>

<p>“Can you do that?” Amelia was delighted.</p>

<p>“Yes, ma’m. I’ll measure it right now.”</p>

<p>Covey watched him hurry across the yard, draw a piece of string from
somewhere about him, and with clear-cut, precise movements measure the
height and width between the two posts.</p>

<p>“I’ll have to allow for straightenin’ these posts and the swing in and
out, but I’m sure I can find the right sort of pieces in the barn,” he
explained. “If it’s all right with Mr. Covey.”</p>

<p>“Oh, I’m sure he won’t mind.”</p>

<p>The next thing, Amelia was coming toward him. His wife’s sister
certainly wasn’t as droopy as she used to be. Didn’t seem to be moping
around any more.</p>

<p>“Mr. Covey, don’t you think it would be very nice if Fred makes us a
new gate? He says he can. It’ll help the appearance of the whole yard.”</p>

<p>Yes, she sure had perked up.</p>

<p>“Go ahead,” he grunted.</p>

<p>Fred made one last calculation with his string. “I’ll go see about the
wood right away,” he said, and turned to leave.</p>

<p>“Wait till tomorrow,” Covey barked. “It’s still the Sabbath.”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” said Fred, and disappeared around the house. Amelia bent
over her flowers.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p>

<p>A thought was breaking through the thick layers of Covey’s brain.
Damned if that fresh nigger didn’t sound just like one of those city
slickers! The way he had measured that opening! <i>I’ll bet he can
figure!</i></p>

<p>It was a staggering thought and struck him unprepared. Full on like
that, it was monstrous. But when the first shock had passed—when the
ripples sort of spread out—he calmed down and began to cogitate.</p>

<p>He went back over what Captain Auld had said—how the buck had been
ruined by the Captain’s city kin, coddled and taught to read until he
was too smart for his own or anybody else’s good.</p>

<p>“Take it out of him!” Captain Auld had stormed. “Break him!”</p>

<p>And he had promised he would. <i>Well!</i></p>

<p>Covey was so still that Lucy, coming to the door and peeping out,
thought he was dozing. She went away shaking her head. <i>Poor Mr.
Covey! He’s not himself these days.</i></p>

<p>He was turning it over in his mind, weighing it. Really big plantations
all had some smart niggers on them, niggers who could work with tools,
niggers who could measure and figure, even buy and sell. Naturally
he hated such niggers when he came across them in town, often as not
riding sleek, black horses. But having one on your own plantation was
different. Like having a darky preacher around, like being a Colonel in
a great white plantation house with a rolling green and big trees.</p>

<p>The last faint streaks of color faded from the sky. For a little while
the tall pines in the distance loomed blade against soft gray. Then
they faded, and overhead the stars came out.</p>

<p>Covey rose, yawned and stretched himself. Tomorrow he would talk to
Fred about that figuring. It was still the Sabbath.</p>

<p>There was nothing subtle about Covey the next day. He was clumsy,
disagreeable and domineering. Frederick suspected that he was being
tricked. But there was no turning back. He said, “Yes, sir, I can chalk
up the bales.”</p>

<p>So he marked and counted each load of cotton, noted the weighing of the
wheat and oats, set down many figures. And Covey took his “chalk man”
to town with him. It got about among the white folks that the “Auld
boy” could read and write. The white masters heard other whisperings
too—vague, amusing “nigger talk.” But it was disturbing. Couldn’t be
too careful these days. There had been that Nat Turner! And a cold
breath lifted the hair on the backs of their necks.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p>

<p>Frederick’s term of service with Edward Covey expired on Christmas day,
1834. The slave-breaker took him back to Captain Auld. The boy was in
good shape, but Captain Auld regarded both of them sourly. The talk had
reached his ears, and he had been warned that he had better get rid
of this slave. “One bad sheep will spoil a whole flock,” they said.
Captain Auld dared not ignore the advice of his powerful neighbors.
His slave holdings were small compared to theirs. Yet he did not want
to sell a buck not yet grown to his full value. Therefore he arranged
to hire the boy out to easy-going Mr. William Freeland, who lived on a
fine old farm about four miles from St. Michaels.</p>

<p>Covey covered the dirt road back to his place at a savage pace. He
was in a mean mood. That night he flogged a half-wit slave until the
black fainted. Then he stomped into the house and, fully dressed,
flung himself across the bed. Lucy didn’t dare touch him and Caroline
wouldn’t.</p>

<p>Frederick’s return to the Auld plantation was an event among the
slaves. Little boys regarded him with round eyes; the old folks talked
of his grandmother. There were those who claimed to have known his
mother; others now recalled that they had fed from the same trough,
under the watchful eye of “Aunt Katy.” He had returned during “the
Christmas” so they could wine and dine him. He saw the looks on their
faces, felt the warm glow. For the first time he saw a girl smiling at
him. Life was good.</p>

<p>Early on the morning of January 1 he set out from St. Michaels for the
Freeland plantation. He had been given a fresh allotment of clothes—a
pair of trousers, a thin coarse jacket, and even a pair of heavy shoes.
Captain Auld did not intend his slave to show up before “quality” in
a state which would reflect shame on his owner. Though not rich, the
Freelands were one of the first families of Maryland.</p>

<p>Life would be easier for him now, Frederick knew. But, as he walked
along the road that morning, he was not hastening toward the greener
grass and spreading shade trees on Mr. Freeland’s place. He was
whistling, but not because he would sleep on a cot instead of on the
floor, nor because his food would be better and ampler. He might even
wear a shirt. But that wasn’t it. Two strong, brown legs were carrying
his body to the Freeland plantation, but Frederick was speeding far
ahead.</p>

<p>He carried his shoes in his hand. Might need those good, strong shoes!
They’d take him over sharp rocks and stubby, thorn-covered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> fields
and through swamplands. <i>Rub them with pepper and they leave no
scent!</i> He kicked the sand up with his bare feet. It felt good. He
stamped down hard, leaving his footprints in the damp earth.</p>

<p>He met an old man driving a mule.</p>

<p>“Whar yo’ goin’, boy?” the old man asked.</p>

<p>“I’m on my way!” It was a song.</p>

<p>The old man peered at him closely. He was nearly blind and knew his
time was almost over. But he wanted to see the face of this young one
who spoke so.</p>

<p>“Whatchu say, boy?” He spoke sharply.</p>

<p>“My master’s sending me over to Mr. Freeland’s place,” Frederick
explained.</p>

<p>“Oh!” the old man said, and waited.</p>

<p>Frederick lowered his voice, though there was no one else in sight.</p>

<p>“It is close by the bay.”</p>

<p>The old man’s breath made a whistling sound as it escaped from the
dried reeds of his throat.</p>

<p>“God bless yo’, boy!” Then he passed on by, driving his mule.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Several hours later Amelia passed the same old man. She had offered
to drive into town and pick up some things for the house. When Covey
had snarled that all the boys were busy, she said cheerfully she could
drive herself.</p>

<p>“I did all of Tom’s buying,” she reminded him. Covey frowned. He didn’t
like opinionated women.</p>

<p>Amelia urged Lucy to go along; the drive would do her good. But poor
Lucy only shrank further into herself and shook her head.</p>

<p>The fact was that Amelia was expecting some mail at the post office.
Also, she wanted to mail a letter. She was writing again to Tom’s
cousin who lived in Washington.</p>

<p>Tom had missed Jack terribly when he went away. They had shot squirrels
and rabbits together, but Jack never took to plowing. He was kind of
wild. Jack had urged Tom to give up, to leave the hills. Tom had hung
on—and now he was dead. They had told Amelia she must be resigned,
that it was “God’s will.”</p>

<p>When Amelia began to wonder, she wrote Jack. <i>Why did Tom die?</i>
she asked him. From there she had gone on to other questions, many
questions. Words had sprawled over the thin sheets. She had never
written such a long letter.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p>

<p>Jack had replied immediately. But that letter had been only the first.
He had sent her newspapers and books. As she read them her astonishment
increased. She read them over and over again.</p>

<p>Now she was thinking about going down to Washington. She was thinking
about it. She hardly saw the old man, driving his mule.</p>

<p>The old man did not peer closely at her. His mule turned aside
politely.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Four"><span class="smcap">Chapter Four</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Frederick comes to a dead end</i><br>
</p>


<p>William Freeland, master of Freelands, gave his rein the slightest tug
as he rode between the huge stone columns. It was good to be alone and
let all memory of the Tilghmans drain from his mind, including Delia’s
girlish laughter. He was glad the Christmas was over. Now he could have
peace.</p>

<p>Just inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was
guarded by a stately sycamore, the big mare came to a quivering pause.
She knew this was where her master wished to stop. From this spot the
old dwelling far up the drive, with tulip poplars huddled around it,
was imposing.</p>

<p>It was a good house, built in the good old days when Maryland boasted
noble blood. Beside the winding staircase of the wide hall hung
a painting of Eleanor, daughter of Benedict Calvert, sixth Lord
Baltimore. William Freeland was not a Calvert; but the families had
been close friends, and the lovely Eleanor had danced in those halls.
That was before Maryland had broken her ties with England. For a
long time there were those who regretted the day Maryland signed the
Articles of Confederation; but when ambitious neighbors crowded their
boundaries, loyal Marylanders rallied round; and in 1785 William
Freeland’s father, Clive Freeland, had gone to Mount Vernon to contest
Virginia’s claim to the Potomac. He had spoken eloquently, and
Alexander Hamilton had accompanied the young man home. There Hamilton
had been received by Clive’s charming bride, had rested and relaxed
and, under the spell of Freelands, had talked of his own coral-strewn,
sun-drenched home in the Caribbeans.</p>

<p>In those days the manor house sat in the midst of a gently rolling
green. Spreading trees towered above precise box borders; turfed
walkways, bordered with beds of delicate tea-roses, crossed each
other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> at right angles; Cherokee rose-vines climbed the garden walls;
and wisteria, tumbling over the veranda, showed bright against the
whitewashed bricks, joined with pink crêpe myrtle by the door and
flowed out toward the white-blossomed magnolias in the yard. The
elegant, swarthy Hamilton lingered, putting off his return to New York
as long as he could. He told them how he hated that city’s crooked,
dirty streets and shrill-voiced shopkeepers.</p>

<p>All this was fifty years ago. The great estate had been sold off in
small lots. On the small plantation that was left, the outhouses were
tumbling down, moss hung too low on the trees, the hedges needed
trimming and bare places showed in the lawn. Everything needed a coat
of paint. Slowly but surely the place was consuming itself, as each
year bugs ate into the tobacco crop.</p>

<p>“It will last out our time.” More than that consideration did not
concern the present master of Freelands.</p>

<p>There was a faint wild fragrance of sweet shrub in the air—the smell
of spring. It was the first day of January, but he knew that plowing
must be got under way. Spring would be early. He sighed. Undoubtedly,
things would have been very different had his elder brother lived. For
Clive, Jr., had had will and energy. He would have seen to it that the
slaves did their work. He would have made the crops pay. Clive had been
a fighter. In fact, Clive had been killed in a drunken brawl. The whole
thing had been hushed up, and young William sent off to Europe. For
several years they spoke of him as “studying abroad.” Actually, William
did learn a great deal. He met lots of people who became less queer as
the days and months passed. He ran into Byron in Italy.</p>

<p>A cable from his mother had brought him hurrying back home. His father
was dead when he arrived.</p>

<p>Everything seemed to have shrunk. For a little while he was appalled by
what he saw and heard. Then gradually the world outside fell away. His
half-hearted attempts to change things seemed silly. He had forgotten
how easy life could be in Maryland.</p>

<p>Now he looked at the substantial old house. Someone was opening the
second-floor shutters. That meant his mother was getting up. He smiled,
thinking how like the house she was—untouched, unmarred, unshaken by
the passing years. At seventy she was magnificent—the real master of
Freelands. He bowed to her every wish, except one. Here he shook his
head and laughed softly. At forty, he remained unmarried.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p>

<p>His mother could not understand that the choice young bits of
femininity which she paraded before him amused, but did not intrigue,
him. So carefully guarding their pale skin against the sun, so daintily
lifting billowing flowered skirts, so demure, waiting behind their
veils in their rose gardens. He knew too well the temper and petty
shrewishness that lurked behind their soft curls. In some cases there
would be brains, too, but brains lying dormant. None of them could hold
a candle to his mother! He would tell her so, stooping to kiss her ear.</p>

<p>The mare pawed restlessly. Someone was whistling just outside the gate.
Freeland drew up closer to the low wall. It was a black who had sat
down on the stump beside the road. He was pulling on a shoe. The other
shoe lay on the ground beside him. Apparently he had been walking along
the sandy road in his bare feet. Freeland chuckled. Just like a nigger!
Give them a good pair of shoes, and the minute your back’s turned they
take them off. Don’t give them shoes, and they say they can’t work.
This fellow was undoubtedly turning in at Freelands and didn’t want to
appear barefoot.</p>

<p>He was standing up now, brushing himself off carefully. A likely
looking youngster, well built. Freeland wondered where he belonged. He
wasn’t black, rather that warm rich brown that indicated mixed blood.</p>

<p>“Bad blood,” his mother always called it. And she would have rapped her
son smartly with her cane had he questioned the verdict. Why should he?
It would seem that the Atlantic Ocean produced some queer alchemical
changes in bloods. In Europe “mixed blood” was, well, just mixed
blood. Everybody knew that swarthy complexions in the south of France,
in Spain, in Italy, indicated mixed blood. Over here things were
different. Certainly there was nothing about slavery to improve stock.
He had seen enough to know that.</p>

<p>He suspected that his mother had doubts and suspicions which she did
not voice. Her feverish anxiety to get him safely married didn’t fool
him. He shrugged his shoulders. She need not worry. He knew men who
blandly sold off their own flesh and blood. He rubbed elbows with them
at the tobacco market, but he never invited them to his table.</p>

<p>In the road Frederick stood looking at the gates a moment. They were
swung back, so he had no hesitancy about entering; but he had never
seen such large gates before. He touched the iron trimmings. Close by a
horse neighed. Frederick turned and knew it must be the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> master sitting
there so easily on the big red mare. He jerked off his hat and bowed.</p>

<p>“Well, boy, what do you want?” The voice was pleasant.</p>

<p>“I’m Captain Auld’s boy, sir. He sent me to work.”</p>

<p>Freeland studied the brown face. This young darky was unusual; such
speech was seldom heard on the Eastern Shore. He asked another question.</p>

<p>“Where are you from, boy?”</p>

<p>Frederick hesitated. It was hardly likely that his master had told his
prospective employer about the year at Covey’s. Had he heard from some
other source? That would be a bad start. He temporized.</p>

<p>“I walked over from St. Michaels just now, sir.”</p>

<p>“Must have got an early start. We haven’t had breakfast here yet.”</p>

<p>The master slid easily to the ground, tossing the reins in the boy’s
direction. “Come along!”</p>

<p>He had not the faintest idea what this was all about. But things had a
way of clearing up in time. He started walking up the driveway toward
the house. Frederick followed with the horse.</p>

<p>“Did you bring a note?” Freeland asked the question over his shoulder.</p>

<p>“No, sir. Captain Auld just told me to get along.”</p>

<p><i>Who the devil is Captain Auld? Oh</i>, he remembered, <i>St.
Michaels—yes</i>. Had said he could send him some help this spring, a
good strong hand. Now what would poor trash like Auld be doing with a
slave like this? He spoke his thoughts aloud, impatiently.</p>

<p>“You’re not a field hand! What do you know about tobacco?”</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart missed a beat. He didn’t want him; didn’t like his
looks! He saw the big gates of Freelands—this lovely place—swinging
shut behind him. He swallowed.</p>

<p>“I—I can do a good day’s work. I mighty strong.”</p>

<p>Freeland flipped a leaf from a bush with his riding crop before he
spoke.</p>

<p>“You weren’t raised up at St. Michaels, and you’re no field hand. Don’t
lie to me, boy!” He turned and looked Frederick full in the face. The
boy stopped but did not flinch. Nor did he drop his eyes in confusion.
After all, the explanation was simple.</p>

<p>“When I was little, Old Marse sent me to Baltimore to look after his
grandson, Tommy. I was raised up there.”</p>

<p>“I see. Who’s your folks?”</p>

<p>The answer came promptly. “Colonel Lloyd’s my folks, sir.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p>

<p>“Oh!”</p>

<p>So that was it! Colonel Edward Lloyd—one of the really great places
in Talbot County—secluded, far from all thoroughfares of travel
and commerce, sufficient unto itself. Colonel Lloyd had transported
his products to Baltimore in his own vessels. Every man and boy on
board, except the captain, had been owned by him as his property. The
plantation had its own blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers
and coopers—all slaves—all “Colonel Lloyd’s folks.” Freeland’s mother
had known dashing Sally Lloyd, the Colonel’s eldest daughter. They had
sailed together in the sloop called the <i>Sally Lloyd</i>. Yes, the
old master was dead now. Naturally many of the slaves had been sold. He
was in luck.</p>

<p>They had reached the house. Freeland mounted the veranda steps. He did
not look around. His words were almost gruff.</p>

<p>“Go on round back. Sandy’ll take care of you.”</p>

<p>He disappeared, leaving Frederick’s “Yessir” hanging in the air.</p>

<p>Frederick patted the mare’s neck and whispered in her ear, “It’s all
right, old girl. Let’s go find Sandy!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>From the road the big house and its tangled yard made a charming
picture of sleepy tranquility. But “round back” all was bustling
activity. “The Christmas” was over. Aunt Lou had emphasized the fact in
no uncertain terms.</p>

<p>“Yo black scamps clean up all dis hyear trash!”</p>

<p>Rakes, brooms, mops and wheelbarrows were whisking. There were sleepy
groans and smart cuffs. Already one round bottom had been spanked.
Everybody knew New Year’s was a day to start things <i>right</i>. Aunt
Lou’s standards and authority were unquestioned. Mis’ Betsy would be
coming along soon. And Lawd help if everything wasn’t spick and span
by then! ’Course Master William was already up and out on that mare
of hissen. But nobody minded Master William too much. Though he could
lay it on if he got mad! Most of the time he didn’t pay no ’tention to
nothin’—not a thing.</p>

<p>Then came a strange nigger leading Master William’s horse. <i>Well!</i>
The young ones stopped and stared, finger in mouth. Susan, shaking a
rug out of an upstairs window, nearly pitched down into the yard. John
and Handy regarded the intruder with eager interest. Sandy turned and
just looked at him.</p>

<p>Frederick’s pulse raced, but he made no sign of recognition either.</p>

<p>Then “voodoo” Sandy smiled, and everybody relaxed. <i>So!</i></p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p>

<p>In the high wainscoted dining room young Henry was serving breakfast.
Old Caleb always served dinner—and even breakfast when there were
guests—but Henry was in training under the eye of his mistress.
Polished silver, gleaming white linen and sparkling glasses—all the
accoutrements of fine living were there. A slight woman in a soft
black silk dress with an ivory-colored collar, sat across from Master
William. Her hair was white, but her blue-veined hands had not been
worn by the years and her eyes remained bright and critical. The
mistress of Freelands had not aged; she had withered.</p>

<p>“Henry!” She rapped the table with her spoon. “Be careful there! How
many times have I told you not to use those cups for breakfast?”</p>

<p>“Please, Mis’ Betsy.” Henry’s tone was plaintive. “’Tain’t none of mah
fault. Caleb set ’em out, ma’m. They was sittin’ right hyear on tha
sideboard.”</p>

<p>“Stop whining, Henry!” Her son seldom spoke with such impatience. Mrs.
Freeland glanced at him sharply.</p>

<p>“Yessah, Massa William, but—” began Henry.</p>

<p>“He’s quite right, Mother,” Freeland interrupted. “Caleb served coffee
to the Tilghmans before they left. I had a cup myself.”</p>

<p>“I’m glad of that.” The cups were forgotten. “I had no idea they were
leaving so early. I should have been up to see my guests off.”</p>

<p>“No need at all, Mother. I accompanied the carriage a good piece down
the road. They’ll make it back to Richmond in no time.”</p>

<p>“It was nice having them for the holidays.” She tasted her coffee
critically.</p>

<p>Mornings were pleasant in this room. The canary, hanging beside the
window, caught the gleam of sunshine on its cage and burst into song.
Some place out back a child laughed. The mistress suppressed a sigh. It
would be a black child. Her son lounged so easily in his chair. She bit
her lips.</p>

<p>“I never thought Delia Tilghman would grow up to be such a charming
young lady.” She spoke casually. “She’s really lovely.”</p>

<p>“She is, indeed, Mother,” her son assented; but at his smile she looked
away.</p>

<p>“I reckon Caleb better wash these cups himself.” Her eyes grew
indulgent as they rested on Henry. He shuffled his feet as she added,
“Henry here was probably out skylarking all night.”</p>

<p>“Yes, <i>ma’m</i>.” Henry gave a wide grin before vanishing
kitchen-ward.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p>

<p>His master’s snort was emphatic. “Henry probably slept twelve hours
last night. The silly ass!”</p>

<p>“Really, William, I do not understand your attitude toward our own
people. Henry was born right here at Freelands.”</p>

<p>He laughed and took another hot biscuit.</p>

<p>“Which undoubtedly should make him less an ass. But does it?” At his
mother’s stricken look he was contrite. “Forgive me, Mother, but I’ve
just found much better material for you to work on, worthy of your
efforts.”</p>

<p>“What are you talking about?”</p>

<p>Henry had returned with golden-brown baked apples, swimming in thick
syrup.</p>

<p>“Henry,” Freeland said, “step out back and fetch in that new boy.”
Henry’s eyes widened, but he did not move. “Run along! You’ll see him.”</p>

<p>Henry disappeared, moving faster than was his wont. Freeland smiled at
his mother.</p>

<p>“I took on a new boy this morning. You’ll like him.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Freeland was incredulous. “You bought a boy this morning?”</p>

<p>“I’m hiring this fellow from a peckawood over at St. Michaels.” His
mother’s sniff was audible. “But he’s really one of Colonel Lloyd’s
people.”</p>

<p>“Oh! That’s different. Should be good stock.”</p>

<p>“Unquestionably. I’d like to buy him.”</p>

<p>The old lady’s eyes had grown reminiscent. She shook her head.</p>

<p>“I wonder if that fine old place is going to pieces. How sad that the
Colonel died without a son.”</p>

<p>The door behind her was shoved open noisily, admitting Henry who
breathed as if he had been running.</p>

<p>“Hyear he is!” he blurted out.</p>

<p>Frederick stopped on the threshold. The room made him hold his
breath—sunlight reflected on rich colors and pouring through the
singing of a little bird. He wanted to stoop down to see if his shoes
carried any tiny speck of sand or dust. He must step softly on the
beautiful floor.</p>

<p>“Come in, boy!”</p>

<p>The man’s voice was kind. Mrs. Freeland turned with a jerk and stared
keenly at the new acquisition. She noted at once his color, or lack of
color. That meant—the thought was rigorously checked. Who was this
boy her son had picked up in St. Michaels? Why this sudden interest in
buying the half-grown buck? She spoke brusquely.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p>

<p>“Come here!”</p>

<p>He drew near, walking quietly but firmly, and bowed. Under her
merciless scrutiny he neither shuffled his feet nor lowered his eyes.
It was the master who broke the silence.</p>

<p>“Well, Mother—”</p>

<p>She waved him to silence with a peremptory gesture.</p>

<p>“Do you have a name?” she questioned.</p>

<p>“My name is Frederick, ma’m.” His words were respectfully low and
distinct.</p>

<p>The man nodded his head in approval. His mother did not move for a
moment. When she spoke there was a harsh grating in her voice.</p>

<p>“Who gave you such a name?”</p>

<p>Frederick was conscious of something tightening inside of him. His name
always surprised people. He had come to wish that he did know how he
got it. From his grandmother? His mother? His father? In Baltimore he
and Tommy had talked about it. Then the young master had said to his
little slave, “Aw, fiddlesticks! What difference does it make? That’s
your name, ain’t it? Just tell ’em!”</p>

<p>“Answer me, boy!” this frightening old lady was saying.</p>

<p>His back stiffened and he said in the same respectful tone, “Frederick
is my name, ma’m.”</p>

<p>She struck him, hard, with her cane. The master pushed back his chair
and half rose.</p>

<p>“Mother!”</p>

<p>“Impudence!” Her eyes blazed. “Get out of my sight!”</p>

<p>Frederick backed away. He dare not run, he dare not answer. He would
not cower. He had no need of asking how he had offended her. He had
the fierce satisfaction of knowing. “Impudence” could be committed by
a slave in a hundred different ways—a look, a word, a gesture. It was
an unpardonable crime. He knew he was guilty. Henry had backed to the
wall, eyes popping, mouth open.</p>

<p>Now William Freeland was on his feet. He spoke to Henry rather than to
Frederick, and his voice was hard.</p>

<p>“Take him out back. I’ll come along in a moment.”</p>

<p>Frederick had a crazy impulse to laugh at Henry’s face as he came
toward him. The lumbering dark fellow was heavier, perhaps a year or
two older, but in a fair fight Frederick knew he could outmarch him.
There was no question of resistance in his mind now, however. The timid
way Henry took his arm was silly.</p>

<p>The moment the door had closed behind them, Henry’s entire demeanor
changed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p>

<p>“Look-a-hyear, boy,” he whispered, dropping Frederick’s arm, “ain’t you
dat crazy nigger what whopped a white man?”</p>

<p>Frederick shrugged his shoulders. His tiny spurt of exaltation had
passed. He felt sick.</p>

<p>“I <i>am</i> crazy.” His words were a groan.</p>

<p>“I knowed it!” exulted Henry. “I knowed it! Come on out to tha barn. I
gotta tell tha others.” There was no suggestion of whine in his voice,
nor was his head cocked to one side.</p>

<p>At Henry’s silent arm-wavings they gathered round—the numerous yard
boys and men working in the stables and barns. Frederick dropped on
an empty box, but Henry delivered a dramatic account of what had just
occurred. They kept their voices low, and when Handy slapped his knee
and laughed out loud, John whirled on him.</p>

<p>“Shut yo’ big mouth! Wanta bring tha house down on us?”</p>

<p>“Standin’ up to Ole Missus!”</p>

<p>“Lawd! Lawd! She’ll skin you!”</p>

<p>They looked at him admiringly. Only Sandy shook his head. “Not good!”
was his only comment.</p>

<p>And Frederick, sitting there on the empty box, agreed with Sandy.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Mrs. Freeland’s cane slipped to the floor as the door closed behind the
two slaves. Her hand was shaking. Her son was puzzled as he bent to
pick up the cane.</p>

<p>“Mother, you have upset yourself. I’m so sorry. But I declare I don’t
see why.”</p>

<p>The small white head jerked up.</p>

<p>“You don’t! So this is your idea of better material. That—That
mongrel!” Her words were vehement.</p>

<p>“Oh, Mother! For heaven’s sake!” The scene he had witnessed suddenly
took on meaning. Was “bad blood” getting to be an obsession with her?</p>

<p>“Strutting in here with his airs and impudence!”</p>

<p>“I’ll confess he is a little cocky.” Then he sought to mollify her.
“He’s probably been spoilt. I told you he was from Colonel Lloyd’s
place. He’s not just a common hand.”</p>

<p>She managed to control the trembling of her lips. <i>I must not fight
with William.</i> She pressed back her tears and got to her feet.</p>

<p>“Keep him, if you like. He looks strong. Only I will not have him in
the house.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p>

<p>She started across the floor, her cane muffled by the rug. In the
hallway she turned.</p>

<p>“I don’t like him. A nigger who looks you straight in the eye is
dangerous. Send Tessie to me!” The keys hanging at her side rattled.</p>

<p>She ascended the stairs, the cane taps growing fainter.</p>

<p>“I’ll be damned!” He spoke the words under his breath, looking after
her. Then, returning to the room, he reached for his pipe. Standing
there, he crushed the bits of dried tobacco leaf into its bowl. “Wonder
if the old girl’s right.”</p>

<p>He sat a while smoking before he went out back. He forgot about Tessie.</p>

<p>The folks in the yard were surprised when Frederick was sent to the
fields. Obviously he had been considered for houseboy. Then, after he
offended Old Missus, they thought he would go scuttling. But, after
a time, Master William came stomping into the yard. He wore his high
boots and he carried his riding crop. In a loud voice he asked where
that boy was hiding. One little pickaninny began to whimper. Everybody
thought that boy was going to get it. But he came right on out of the
barn. The master just stood there, waiting, drawing the whip through
his hands. He didn’t say anything until the boy was quite close. Then
he spoke so low they couldn’t hear.</p>

<p>“Do you want to work on my place?”</p>

<p>Frederick was so surprised by the question that he barely managed to
gasp, “Oh, yes, sir! I do, sir!”</p>

<p>The master’s next words were louder.</p>

<p>“Then get down to the bottom tract.” He pointed with his whip. “And
hurry!” he almost shouted.</p>

<p>Without another word the boy streaked off across the field. Master
William yelled for his horse and went riding lickety-split after him.
The yard folks stared: <i>Well!</i></p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Some of the boys tried to console Frederick that evening. They
considered field work low drudgery and held themselves aloof from the
“fiel’ han’s.” But Frederick considered himself fortunate. He liked Mr.
Freeland, liked the way he had told an older worker to show him, liked
the way he had gone off, leaving them together.</p>

<p>He found he was to bunk over the stable with Sandy and John. John was
Henry’s brother, but Henry slept in the house where he could answer
a summons. Handy occupied a cabin with his mother and sister. Before
Frederick went to sleep that first night he knew all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> there was to know
about these four, who were to be his closest friends. Sandy, though
still owned by Mr. Grooms, had been hired out for the season as usual
to Mr. Freeland. He told Frederick that his wife Noma was well. He
spent every Sunday with her as always. Some Sunday, he promised, he
would take Frederick to see her. The mother of John and Handy had died
while they were quite young. They had never been away from Freelands,
and were curious about what went on “outside.”</p>

<p>Never had Frederick enjoyed such congenial companionship. The slaves
at Freelands had all they wanted to eat; they were not driven with a
lash; they had time to do many things for themselves. Aunt Lou was an
exacting overseer, but Aunt Lou could be outwitted. After his grueling
labor at Covey’s, Frederick’s duties seemed very light indeed. He was
still a field hand, but he preferred work in the open to any service
which would bring him under the eyes of the Old Missus. Since he had
no business in the house or out front, he could stay out of her sight.
Once in a while he would look up to find Master William watching him at
work, but he seldom said anything.</p>

<p>Frederick was growing large and strong and began to take pride in the
fact that he could do as much hard work as the older men. The workers
competed frequently among themselves, measuring each other’s strength.
But slaves were too wise to keep it up long enough to produce an
extraordinary day’s work. They reasoned that if a large quantity of
work were done in one day and it became known to the master, he might
ask the same amount every day. Even at Freelands this thought was
enough to bring them to a dead halt in the middle of a close race.</p>

<p>The evenings grew longer and more pleasant, and Frederick’s dreams for
the future might have faded. But now he found himself talking more and
more earnestly to his friends. Henry and John were remarkably bright
and intelligent, when they wished to be. Neither could read.</p>

<p>“If I only had my <cite>Columbian Orator</cite>!”</p>

<p>He told them how he lost his precious book and how he had learned to
read it. Perhaps such a book could be found.</p>

<p>“What’s in a book?” they asked.</p>

<p>Frederick told them everything he knew—about stories he and Tommy had
read together, spelling books, newspapers he had filched in Baltimore,
how men wrote down their deeds and thoughts, about things happening in
other places, how once white men fought a war,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> and a speech one of the
boys had learned from the <cite>Columbian Orator</cite>—a speech that said
“Give me liberty or give me death!”</p>

<p>“All dat in a book?” But then they noticed Master William sitting with
a book. Evening were long now and warmer. The master rode only in the
mornings. They saw him on the veranda, for hours at a time, sitting
with a book. One day Henry made up his mind.</p>

<p>“I’ll git me a book!”</p>

<p>It was easy. Just walk into the room which was usually empty and
take a book! It was his job to dust them, anyhow, so no one noticed.
Henry could hardly wait for evening when Frederick would come in from
the fields. Henry and John and Handy—waiting with a book. They were
excited.</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart leaped too when he saw the book. He took it eagerly
and opened to the title page. He frowned. The words were very long and
hard-looking. Pictures would have made it easier, but no matter. He
turned to the first page. They held their breath. Frederick was going
to read.</p>

<p>But Frederick did not read. Letters were on the page in front of
him, but something terrible had happened to them. He strained his
eyes searching—searching for one single word he recognized. Had he
forgotten everything? That could not be. With his mind’s eye he could
see pages and words very clearly. But none of the words he remembered
were here. What kind of book was this? Slowly he spelt out the title,
vainly endeavoring to put the letters together into something that
would make sense.</p>

<p>“G-a-r-g-a-n-t-u-a-e-t-p-a-n-t-a-g-r-u-e-l.” And underneath all that
were the letters “R-a-b-e-l-a-i-s.”</p>

<p>He shook his head. Many years later, in Paris, Frederick Douglass read
portions of Rabelais’ <cite>Gargantua et Pantagruel</cite>. And he vividly
recalled the awful sense of dismay which swept over him the first time
he held a copy of this masterpiece of French literature in his hands.</p>

<p>They were waiting. He swallowed painfully.</p>

<p>“G’wan, big boy! Read!” Handy was impatient.</p>

<p>“I—I—” Frederick began again. “This—This book—It’s not—the one I
meant. I can’t make—This book—” He stopped. John drew nearer.</p>

<p>“Hit’s a book, ain’t it?” He was ready to defend his brother.</p>

<p>“Yes, but—”</p>

<p>“Then read hit!”</p>

<p>Frederick turned several pages. It was no use. He wished the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> ground
would open and swallow him up. He forced his lips to say the words.</p>

<p>“I—can’t!”</p>

<p>They stared at him, not believing what they heard. Then they looked at
each other and away quickly. They’d been taken in. He had been lying
all the time.</p>

<p>Handy spat on the ground, disgusted.</p>

<p>But Henry was puzzled. Frederick looked as if he were going to be sick.
He hadn’t looked like that when the old lady struck him, or when Master
William came out after him with his whip. Henry shifted his weight.</p>

<p>“Looky, Fred! What all’s wrong wid dat book?”</p>

<p>Gratitude, like a cool breeze, steadied Frederick. He wet his lips.</p>

<p>“I don’t know, Hen. It’s all different. These funny words—Everything’s
mixed up.”</p>

<p>“Lemme see!” Henry took the book and turned several pages. He liked the
feel of the smooth paper.</p>

<p>“Humph!” Handy spit again.</p>

<p>“Huccome they’s mixed?” John’s suspicions sounded in his voice. The
recklessness of desperation goaded Frederick.</p>

<p>“Henry, could you get another book? I—I never said I could read
<i>all</i> the books. Could you try another one? Could you, Henry?”</p>

<p>Henry sighed. He tucked the rejected book under his arm.</p>

<p>“Reckon.”</p>

<p>His brief reply brought Hand’s withering scorn.</p>

<p>“Yo’ gonna lose yo’ hide! Hyear me!” With this warning Handy walked
away. His disappointment was bitter.</p>

<p>The next day stretched out unbearably. Frederick forced himself
through the motions of his work while his mind went round and round
in agonizing circles. Then suddenly it was time to stop, time for
the evening meal, time to return to the yard. He knew Henry would be
waiting with another book. His moist hands clung to his hoe, his feet
seemed rooted in the cool, upturned earth. Then his legs were carrying
him back.</p>

<p>He saw them standing behind the barn—John and Henry and, slightly
removed, leaning against a tree, Handy. He went on whittling when
Frederick came up. Handy’s demeanor was that of a wholly disinterested
bystander. But Henry said, “I got hit—anodder one.” His tone was
cautious.</p>

<p>Frederick took the book with hands that trembled. Handy’s knife<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>
paused. Then Frederick gave a whoop, and Handy, dropping his stick,
came running.</p>

<p>“The Last of the Mo-hi-cans!” read Frederick triumphantly. He didn’t
know what “Mohicans” meant, but what was one small word? He turned the
pages and shouted for joy. Words, words, words—beautiful, familiar
faces smiled up at him! He hugged the book. He danced a jig, and they
joined him, making such a disturbance that Sandy came out of the barn
to see what was going on.</p>

<p>Sandy was their friend, so they told him—all talking together. They
hid the book and went to eat, swallowing their food in great gulps.
Afterward they went down to the creek, and Frederick read to them until
darkness blotted out the magic of the pages. They talked, then, turning
over the words, examining them.</p>

<p>This was the beginning. As summer came on and the long evenings
stretched themselves over hours of leisure, the good news got around;
and additional trusted neophytes were permitted to join them at the
creek. Learning to read was now the objective. More books disappeared
from the house. After Frederick slipped up in the attic and found
several old school books, real progress began. Then trouble arose.</p>

<p>Seemed like everybody wanted to learn “tha readin’.” That, argued the
select few, would not do. This certainly was not a matter for “fiel’
han’s.” Field hands, however, were stubborn in their persistence. The
fact that the teacher was a field hand seemed to have erased their
accustomed servility. One of them even brought in Mr. Hall’s Jake, an
uncouth fellow from the neighboring plantation. They vouched for Jake’s
trustworthiness, and he proved an apt pupil. Then Jake brought a friend!</p>

<p>Sandy counseled caution. Frederick, happy in what he was doing, was
hardly aware of the mutterings. So they wrestled with their first
problem in democracy.</p>

<p>Then, one Sunday afternoon, they were nearly caught.</p>

<p>It was a scorcher, late in July. The noon meal was over, and they were
sitting in the shade of a big oak tree at the edge of the south meadow,
ten or twelve of them under the big tree. Jake appeared, coming over
the ridge that marked the boundary of Freelands. He saw them and waved,
then started walking down.</p>

<p>“Glad I ain’t walkin’ in no hot sun.” John had just learned a new word,
and he felt good. Suddenly Jake was seen to straighten up, wave both
arms frantically and start running in the opposite direction.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p>

<p>Books were whisked out of sight, papers disappeared as if by magic.
When Master William and his guest came trotting around the dump of
trees, all they saw was a bunch of lazy niggers stretched out in the
shade.</p>

<p>“Watch out, there!” Freeland’s mare shied away. With a sleepy grunt,
Henry rolled over.</p>

<p>The guest was from Baltimore. He had been speaking vehemently for such
a hot day.</p>

<p>“Look at that!” he burst out. “Show me a bunch of sleek, fat niggers
sleeping through the day in Boston.”</p>

<p>The master of Freelands laughed indulgently. His guest continued.</p>

<p>“Those damned Abolitionists ought to come down here. Freein’ niggers!
The thieving fools!” He jerked his horse’s head savagely.</p>

<p>William Freeland spoke in his usual, pleasant, unheated voice.</p>

<p>“I’d kill the first Abolitionist who set foot on my land, same as I
would a mad dog.”</p>

<p>They rode on out of hearing.</p>

<p>No one moved for a long minute. Then Henry sat up abruptly.</p>

<p>“Where is mah book?” He jerked it from under the belly of a sweating
stable boy.</p>

<p>Black Crunch, long, lean and hard like a hound, moved more slowly. He
was thinking.</p>

<p>“Fred,” he asked, leaning forward, “does yo’ know whar is dat dar
Boston place?”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>After this, the “Sunday School” grew in numbers. There was no more talk
of restricting “members.” The name was Frederick’s idea, and everybody
followed the lead with complete understanding. It was well known that
masters seldom raised any objection to slaves leaving the plantation
for Sunday services, even when they went some distance away. So now
it was possible to talk freely about the Sunday School over on Mr.
Freeland’s place!</p>

<p>Somebody hailed William Freeland one day as he rode along.</p>

<p>“Hear your niggers are holding some kind of a revival, old man,” he
called. “Got a good preacher?”</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t know.” Freeland laughed back, waving his whip. Next
morning, however, he spoke to Henry.</p>

<p>“Oh, Henry, what’s this I hear about a revival going on?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p>

<p>“Whatchu sayin’, Massa William?” Henry’s lips hung flabby. Not a trace
of intelligence lighted his face.</p>

<p>“A revival! You know what a revival is.” Freeland tried to curb his
impatience.</p>

<p>“Oh, yessuh!” Henry showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Yessuh, Ah knows
a revival. Yes, <i>suh</i>!”</p>

<p>“Well, is there a revival going on around here?”</p>

<p>“Revival? Roun’ hyear?” The whites of Henry’s eyes resembled marbles.</p>

<p>Freeland kicked back his chair. What the hell difference did it make?</p>

<p>At the end of the year William Freeland rode over to St. Michaels and
renewed his contract with Captain Auld for his boy’s services. He
reported that the slave had worked well; he had no complaints to make.
Captain Auld’s eyes glittered when he took the money. Evidently that
buck was turning out all right. Another year and he’d bring a good
price in the market.</p>

<p>The master was really touched by Frederick’s gratitude when told that
he was to remain on. As a matter of fact, Frederick had been deeply
worried. As the year had drawn to a close he felt he had wasted
valuable time. There was much to do—plans to make and lines to be
carefully laid—before he made his break for freedom.</p>

<p>Another Christmas and a new year. And New Year’s Day was a time to
start things right. Everybody knew that!</p>

<p>They heard it first in the yard, of course. Black Crunch had run away!
When the horsemen came galloping up the drive not a pickaninny was
in sight. Old Caleb opened the front door and bowed with his beautiful
deference. But they shoved him out of the way unceremoniously, calling
for the master. Old Missus sniffed the air disdainfully, standing very
straight, but Master William rode off with them.</p>

<p>The next night all along the Eastern Shore slaves huddled, shivering
in dark corners. The baying of the hounds kept some white folks awake,
too. They didn’t find Black Crunch. They never found Black Crunch.</p>

<p>There was a hazy tension in the air. The five friends bound themselves
together with a solemn oath of secrecy—Frederick, Handy, Henry, John,
and Sandy. They were going together—all five. John pleaded for his
sweetheart, little Susan, to be taken along; and Sandy knew the danger
that threatened his wife if he left her. Though a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> free woman herself,
she could be snatched back into bondage if he ran away. Noma knew this
also. Yet the woman said simply, “Go!”</p>

<p>The Eastern Shore of Maryland lay very close to the free state of
Pennsylvania. Escape might not appear too formidable an undertaking.
Distance, however, was not the chief trouble. The nearer the lines of a
slave state were to the borders of a free state, the more vigilant were
the slavers. At every ferry was a guard, on every bridge sentinels, in
every wood patrols and slave-hunters. Hired kidnappers also infested
the borders.</p>

<p>Nor did reaching a free state mean freedom for the slave. Wherever
caught they could be returned to slavery. And their second lot would be
far worse than the first! Slaveholders constantly impressed upon their
slaves the boundlessness of slave territory and their own limitless
power.</p>

<p>Frederick and his companions had only the vaguest idea of the geography
of the country. “Up North” was their objective. They had heard of
Canada, they had heard of New York, they had heard of Boston. Of what
lay in between they had no thoughts at all.</p>

<p>After many long discussions they worked out their plan for escape. On
the Saturday night before the Easter holidays they would take a large
canoe owned by a Mr. Hamilton, launch out into Chesapeake Bay and
paddle with all their might for its head, a distance of about seventy
miles. On reaching this point they would turn the canoe adrift and bend
their steps toward the north star until they reached a free state.</p>

<p>This plan had several excellent points. On the water they had a chance
of being thought fishermen, in the service of a master; hounds could
not track them; and over Easter their absence might not be noted. On
the other hand, in bad weather the waters of the Chesapeake are rough,
and there would be danger in a canoe, of being swamped by the waves.
Furthermore, the canoe would soon be missed; and, if absent slaves
were suspected of having taken it, they would be pursued by some
fast-sailing craft out of St. Michaels.</p>

<p>They prepared for one quite possible emergency. Any white man, if he
pleased, was authorized to stop a Negro on any road and examine and
arrest him. Many a freeman, being called upon by a pack of ruffians to
show his free papers, presented them, only to have the hoodlums tear
them up, seize the victim and sell him to a life of endless bondage.</p>

<p>The week before their intended start, Frederick wrote a pass for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> each
of the party, giving him permission to visit Baltimore during the
Easter holidays. He signed them with the initials of William Hamilton,
tobacco planter whose place edged on the bay and whose canoe they had
planned to take. The pass ran after this manner:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer,
my servant John, full liberty to go to Baltimore to spend the Easter
holidays.</p>

<p>Near St. Michaels, Talbot Co., Md.<span class="lpad"> W. H.</span></p>
</div>

<p>Although they were not going to Baltimore and intended to land east of
North Point, in the direction they had seen the Philadelphia steamers
go, these passes might be useful in the lower part of the bay, while
steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown until
all other answers had failed to satisfy the inquirer. The conspirators
were fully alive to the importance of being calm and self-possessed
when accosted, if accosted they should be; and they more than once
rehearsed to each other how they would behave under fire.</p>

<p>With everything figured out, the days and nights of waiting were long
and tedious. Every move, every word, every look had to be carefully
guarded. Uneasiness was in the air. Slaveholders were constantly
looking out for the first signs of rebellion against the injustice
and wrong which they were perpetrating every hour of the day. And
their eyes were skilled and practiced. In many cases they were able to
read, with great accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slave
through his sable face. Any mood out of the common way gave grounds for
suspicion and questioning.</p>

<p>Yet, with the plowing over, with spring in the air and an Easter
holiday drawing near, what more natural than that the slaves should
sing down in their quarters—after the day’s work was over?</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Ah’m boun’ fo’ the lan’ o’ Canaan.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>They sang, and their voices were sweet. William Freeland, sitting on
the veranda, took his pipe from between his teeth and smiled at his
mother.</p>

<p>“I always say there’s nothing like darkies singing—nothing. Some of
our folks have really beautiful voices. Listen to that!” The master of
Freelands spoke with real pride.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p>

<p>Inside the house old Caleb fussed with the curtains. He felt a
trembling inside of him. That dear, young voice out there in the dusk:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Ah thought Ah heared them say</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">There was lions in the way</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I don’ expect to stay</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Much longah here.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The buoyant refrain—all the voices singing triumphantly:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Oh Canaan, sweet Canaan,</div>
    <div class="verse indent2">Not much longah here!”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Crazy fools!” whispered Caleb. “Singin’ lak dat!”</p>

<p><i>Singing for all the world to know!</i> He wanted to warn them. He
shook his head. Caleb had been young once, too. And he had dreamed of
freedom. He was old now. He would die a slave. He shuffled back to the
pantry. Shut in there he could no longer hear the singing.</p>

<p>Two days before the appointed time Sandy withdrew. He could not go off
and leave his wife. They pleaded with him.</p>

<p>“You young ones go! You make good life. I stay now!”</p>

<p>John was the most visibly shaken. John whose little Susan had wept
several times of late because of his moody silences and bad temper.
After saying that nothing could change his mind or intention he walked
away stiffly.</p>

<p>Then Sandy confessed that he had had a dream, a bad dream.</p>

<p>“About us?” Frederick asked the question, his heart heavy. This was
bad, coming from Sandy. And Sandy spoke, his voice low and troubled.</p>

<p>“I dream I roused from sleep by strange noises, noises of a swarm of
angry birds that passed—a roar like a coming gale over the tops of the
trees. I look up. I see you, Frederick, in the claws of a great bird.
And there was lots of birds, all colors and all sizes. They pecked at
you. Passing over me, the birds flew southwest. I watched until they
was clean out of sight.” He was silent.</p>

<p>Frederick drew a long breath.</p>

<p>“And they took me with them?”</p>

<p>“Yes.”</p>

<p>Frederick did not meet his eyes. He stiffened his back.</p>

<p>“It was just a dream, Sandy. Look, we’re worried and jumpy. That’s all.
Hen, that’s right—don’t you think? What’s a little dream?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p>

<p>Henry spoke with unaccustomed firmness.</p>

<p>“Ain’t no little ole dream gonna stop <i>me</i>!”</p>

<p>Frederick gripped his arm, thankful for Henry’s strength and
determination. He keenly felt the responsibility of the undertaking. If
they failed it would be his fault. He wished Sandy had not told him the
dream.</p>

<p>The day dawned. Frederick went out to the field earlier than usual. He
had to be busy. At breakfast Henry broke one of the precious cups. He
was roundly berated by Old Missus. Her son said nothing. Henry had been
more clumsy than usual lately.</p>

<p>The morning dragged. Frederick had been spreading manure for what
seemed to him an eternity when—for no apparent reason at all—he
experienced a sudden blinding presentiment.</p>

<p>“We’ve failed!”</p>

<p>It was as if a hundred eyes were watching him—as if all his intentions
were plainly written in the sky. A few minutes after this, the long,
low, distant notes of the horn summoned the workers from the field to
the noon-day meal. Frederick wanted nothing to eat. He looked around
probing the landscape for some reason for the awful certainty in his
mind. He shook himself. He pressed the back of his hand hard against
his mouth.</p>

<p>As he crossed the field he saw William Freeland come out of the house
and go toward the barn. He came nearer, and the long graveled driveway
was in full view. And so he saw the four men on horseback turn into the
drive and approach the house. Then he saw two blacks whom he could not
identify walking behind. One of them seemed to be tied!</p>

<p><i>Something has happened! We’ve been betrayed!</i></p>

<p><i>No need to run now.</i> He came on, cutting across the front yard;
he climbed over the low hedge and was stooping to pass under the
rotting rose trellis as one horseman, far in the lead and riding very
rapidly, reached the house. It was the tobacco planter, Mr. William
Hamilton. The horseman pulled his horse to an abrupt stop and hailed
Frederick.</p>

<p>“Hey, boy! Where’s your master?”</p>

<p>Even in this bitter moment of defeat some perverse imp inside Frederick
forced him to reply, speaking very politely, “Mr. Freeland, sir, just
went to the barn.”</p>

<p>Hamilton’s whip jerked in his hand, but he did not bring it down on
Frederick. He wheeled about in a flurry of gravel and rode off<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> toward
the stables. By this time the other three had come up, and Frederick
saw that they were constables.</p>

<p>He burst into the kitchen, heedless of Aunt Lou’s wrath. But the
kitchen was quiet with an ominous stillness. Only John was there,
his back to the room, looking out the window. He turned quickly, and
Frederick saw his quivering face. They grasped each other by the hand
and stood together, waiting.</p>

<p>The outside door opened a second time, admitting Master Freeland. His
eyes were glinting steel in a grim face. His voice was harsh.</p>

<p>“So, here you are!” He was looking at Frederick. “Go outside! These men
want to question you.”</p>

<p>“He ain’t done nothin’, Massa William.” There was panic in John’s
appeal.</p>

<p>“Shut up!” Freeland shoved Frederick toward the door.</p>

<p>As he stepped outside, two constables seized him.</p>

<p>“What do you want? Why do you take me?”</p>

<p>A blow in the mouth cut his lip. They twisted his arm, throwing him to
the ground.</p>

<p>Hamilton, standing beside his horse, pointed to John, who had followed
Frederick to the door.</p>

<p>“That one, too. Take him!” He held a rifle in his hand.</p>

<p>John cried out when they seized him.</p>

<p>All this was taking place just outside the kitchen door, some distance
from the barns and outhouses. Motionless black figures could be seen.
Now a kind of hushed wail was heard.</p>

<p>Henry, running with Sandy behind him, was coming from the barn. A
constable met him, a heavy gun at his side. He carried a rope. Hamilton
had pointed to Henry, nodding his head.</p>

<p>“Tie him!”</p>

<p>“Cross your hands!” ordered the constable. Henry was panting. He did
not speak at once. In that moment he had seen everything. Then, looking
straight at the man in front of him, he said, “I won’t!”</p>

<p>They were all taken by surprise. The master of Freelands stared at a
Henry he had never seen before. The constable sputtered.</p>

<p>“Why you black ——! You won’t cross your hands!” He reached for his
revolver.</p>

<p>“Henry!” His master’s voice cracked.</p>

<p>And Henry looked at him and said, with added emphasis, “No! I won’t!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p>

<p>The three constables now cocked their revolvers, surrounded him. Mr.
Hamilton was agitated. He also drew his rifle.</p>

<p>“By God, Freeland, he’s dangerous!”</p>

<p>William Freeland could say nothing. Iron bands seemed to be choking
him. <i>Henry!</i> That clumsy, silly slave had grown a foot.</p>

<p>“Shoot me! Shoot me and be damned! I won’t be tied!”</p>

<p>And at the moment of saying it, with the guns at his breast, Henry
quickly raised his arms and dashed the weapons from their hands,
sending them flying in all directions.</p>

<p>In the confusion which followed Frederick managed to get near John.</p>

<p>“The pass?” he asked. “Do you have the pass?”</p>

<p>“It’s burned. I put it in the stove.”</p>

<p>“Good!” This much evidence was gone, anyway.</p>

<p>Henry fought like a tiger. Inside the house, Old Missus heard the
uproar and came out back.</p>

<p>“Henry! Henry! They’re killing Henry!” she shrieked. Her son rushed to
her, trying to explain. She pushed him away. “Stop them! Stop those
ruffians!”</p>

<p>Finally they had Henry overpowered. As he lay on the ground trussed
and bleeding, Frederick and John, helpless though they were, stood
accused in their own eyes because they too had not resisted. John
cried bitterly, in futile rage. Frederick stood rigid, every breath
a separate stab of pain. Mrs. Freeland, her own eyes wet, tried to
comfort John.</p>

<p>“Don’t, Johnny. I know it’s all a mistake. We’ll fix it. We’ll get you
and Henry out of it!”</p>

<p>They took Sandy, whose black face remained unfathomable. Then the
tobacco planter spoke.</p>

<p>“Perhaps now we’d better make a search for those passes we understand
Captain Auld’s boy has written for them.”</p>

<p>Freeland was almost vehement, insisting that they be taken immediately
to the jail and there carefully examined. To himself he said that his
mother’s outburst had unnerved him. He wanted to get the whole business
over and done with—get it out of his sight.</p>

<p>As they stood, securely bound, ready to start toward St. Michaels, the
mistress came out with her hands full of biscuits which she divided
between John and Henry, ignoring both Sandy and Frederick. And as they
started around the house she pointed her bony finger at Frederick.</p>

<p>“It’s you! You yellow devil!” she called out after him. “You put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> it in
their heads to run away! John and Henry are good boys. You did it! You
long-legged, yellow devil!”</p>

<p>At the look which Frederick turned on her, she screamed in mingled
wrath and fright and went in, slamming the door.</p>

<p>The constables fastened them with long ropes to the horses. Now
Frederick recognized the two dark forms he had seen from a distance
as Handy and a boy owned by Mr. Hamilton. Handy had slipped off that
morning to hide their supplies near the canoe. This boy had somehow
become involved. Maybe Handy had solicited his aid—maybe that was
what happened. Frederick turned the possibility over inside his aching
head. The boy had been beaten. His shirt hung in stained utters. Under
the watchful eyes they gave no sign of knowing each other. They waited
while the horses pawed restlessly, kicking up sharp bits of gravel into
their faces.</p>

<p>As Freeland mounted his big mare, the tobacco planter pointed at Sandy.</p>

<p>“Is that one of your own niggers?”</p>

<p>“No,” the master of Freelands shook his head. “I hire him from a man
named Groomes, over in Easton.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I
hate to lose the best carpenter we’ve had in a long time.”</p>

<p>“I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Hamilton looked thoughtful. “Believe
he’s the one they call a voodoo.” Freeland shrugged his shoulders,
settling himself firmly in the saddle. Hamilton continued, his voice
grim. “Best keep an eye on him.”</p>

<p>“Don’t tell me you take stock in nigger black magic!” Freeland mocked
him.</p>

<p>It was Hamilton’s turn to shrug his shoulders, as his ungracious host
headed the procession down the drive and out into the highway.</p>

<p>Inside the house old Caleb straightened the worn, brocaded curtains,
his stiff fingers shaking. He felt old and useless. Upstairs Susan
sought to muffle her sobs in Old Missus’ feather bolster, heedless of
the fact that she was staining the fine linen slip. The children down
in the slave quarters were very still, hardly breathing.</p>

<p>Easter was in the air. The sun shone bright and warm. Folks were
thinking about the holiday, and overseers were relaxed. In the fields,
slaves leaned on their hoes and watched them go by—five white men,
their hats pulled low, their shirts open at the neck, riding on horses;
and behind them, jerking, grotesque figures, pulled by the horses, dust
blinding and choking them, their bare feet stumbling over rocks and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>
raising a cloud of dust, their bare heads covered with sweat and grime.</p>

<p>Frederick, fastened with Henry to the same horse, pulled hard on the
rope, endeavoring to slacken the pace. He knew what torture Henry was
enduring. The constable, noticing this tugging, lashed out once with
his whip. Then he chose to ignore the matter. It was a long, hot drive
to the Easton jail, and the constable was in no particular hurry.</p>

<p>Henry managed to get his breath. The mistress had made them loose one
of his hands. In this free hand he still clinched his biscuits. Now,
looking gratefully at Frederick, he gasped, “The pass! What shall I do
with my pass?”</p>

<p>Frederick answered immediately. “Eat it with your biscuit!”</p>

<p>A moment later Henry had managed to slip the piece of paper into his
mouth. He chewed well on the biscuit and swallowed with a gulp. Then he
grinned, a trickle of blood starting from his cut lip.</p>

<p>The word went round from one bound figure to another, “Swallow your
pass! Own nothing! Know nothing.”</p>

<p>Though their plans had leaked out—somehow, some way—their confidence
in each other was unshaken. Somebody had made a mistake, but they were
resolved to succeed or fail together.</p>

<p>By the time they reached the outskirts of St. Michaels it was clear
that the news had gone on ahead.</p>

<p>A bunch of runaway niggers! Fair sport on a Saturday afternoon. The
“insurrection”—the word stumbled off their tongues—had been started
by that “Auld boy,” the “smart nigger.”</p>

<p>“A bad un!”</p>

<p>“Ought to be hanged!” They laughed and ordered another drink of burning
whiskey. <i>Wish something would happen in this God-forsaken hole!</i></p>

<p>The procession stopped first at Captain Auld’s. The Captain was loud in
his cries of denunciation.</p>

<p>“Done everything for this boy, everything! I promise you he’ll be
punished—I’ll take all the hide off him! I’ll break every bone in his
body!”</p>

<p>He was reminded that Frederick and the others were already in the hands
of the law. Beyond a shadow of doubt they would be punished. At this
the Captain calmed down. Here was a horse of another color. Frederick
was <i>his</i> property. His slow mind began to revolve. He dared
not offend either Mr. Freeland or Mr. Hamilton. He had no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> stomach
for losing a valuable piece of property to anything as vague and
unrewarding as “the law.” He fixed a stern eye on Frederick—noting the
thick broad shoulders and long legs.</p>

<p>“What have you done, you ungrateful rascal?”</p>

<p>“Nothin’, Massa, nothin’, nothin’, nothin’! The whistle blowed, I come
in to eat—an’ they took me! They took me!”</p>

<p>Frederick’s mind also had been working. He was resolved to throw the
burden of proof upon his accusers. He could see that the passion of his
outcry now had its effect. The Captain grunted with satisfaction. He
asked the gentlemen for more details. Just exactly what <i>had</i> the
boy done?</p>

<p>Of course, no single pass was found on them. All six of the accused
said the same thing—they had been going about their work as usual.
They had not the slightest idea why they had been arrested. Handy
explained in great detail how he had been sent over to Mr. Hamilton’s
place by Aunt Lou. He was returning from that errand. The Hamilton
boy had been down on the beach mending a net. Their protestations of
innocence were loud and voluble. Too voluble, each master thought to
himself. But he did not put his thoughts into words. It would never do
to admit that they were being outwitted by a bunch of sniveling darkies.</p>

<p>They were taken to the county jail and locked up. It was a ramshackle,
old affair. A good wind coming in from the bay could have knocked it
over, and a very small fire would have wiped it out in short order.
But it was prison enough for the six. Henry, John, and Frederick were
placed in one cell and Sandy, the Hamilton boy, and Handy in another.
They had plenty of space, since the cells really were rooms of the
building. They were fed immediately and were left completely alone
throughout the night. They were thankful for this respite.</p>

<p>Early Easter morning they were at them—a swarm of slave-traders and
agents of slave-traders who, hearing of the “catch” in the county jail
at Easton, hurried over to ascertain if the masters wanted to rid
themselves of dangerous “troublemakers.” Good bargains could often be
picked up under such circumstances. Rebellious slaves were usually
strong and vigorous. Properly manacled, they were rendered helpless.
And there was a demand for them on the great plantations where they
were beginning to grow enormous crops of cotton. Word had gone out that
these captured slaves were young and in unusually good condition.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p>

<p>The sheriff willingly obliged the traders. So they fell upon the
prisoners like a bunch of vultures, feeling their arms and legs,
shaking them by the shoulders to see if they were sound and healthy,
making them jump up and down on one foot, examining their teeth,
examining their testicles.</p>

<p>“This one, now,”—the trader was “going over” Frederick—“he’d go fine
with a piece I picked up last week. She’s swellin’ with heat. They’d
make a litter!”</p>

<p>The two men laughed.</p>

<p>“How’d you like to go with me, buck boy?” He kicked him lightly.</p>

<p>Frederick, his rage choking him, did not answer.</p>

<p>“Um—no tongue,” the second trader grunted.</p>

<p>“Look at his eyes!” the first man said. “If I had ’im, I’d cut the
devil out of him pretty quick!”</p>

<p>This went on for several days, with no further questions nor any
beatings. The suspense was terrible. The dream of freedom faded.</p>

<p>Then one afternoon the master of Freelands appeared with Mr. Hamilton
and took away all the prisoners except Frederick. They were going back
with no further punishment. Old Missus had persuaded her son that this
was the just and correct course.</p>

<p>“Nobody’s to blame but that hired boy! Bring our folks home!”</p>

<p>He talked it over with Hamilton. For want of an alternative, he
assented.</p>

<p>Freeland could not have explained to himself why he allowed them to
tell Frederick goodbye. All that his mother had said about him had been
proven true. He <i>was</i> dangerous. He was certain that this boy,
standing there so quietly, had planned an escape for his slaves. How
many were involved and where were they going? Why should they wish to
leave Freelands? They had far less to worry them than the master had—a
shelter over their heads, clothing, food. His mother nursed them when
they were sick. Their work was not heavy. He would have liked to ask
this boy some questions.</p>

<p>It was evident that the others did not want to go. Henry clung to
Frederick’s arm, his big, ugly face working. He heard Sandy, who seldom
spoke, say, “Big tree bow in the wind. Big tree stand!”</p>

<p>“I will not be forgettin’!” Frederick answered.</p>

<p>They went away then and climbed into the waiting wagon. They were going
back in state—riding with one of Mr. Hamilton’s men driving the mules.
The masters were on horseback. Frederick, standing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> beside the barred
window, saw them wave as the wagon turned into the road.</p>

<p>Alone in the prison Frederick gave way to complete misery. He felt
certain now that he was doomed to the ever-dreaded Georgia, Louisiana,
or Alabama. They would be coming for him now, to take him “down the
river.” Even in his despair he was glad that the others were not going
with him. At least they were no worse off than before their heads had
been filled with dreams of freedom. And now they could read. Eventually
they would get away. But he was too young to derive much comfort from
this thought—too young and too much alive.</p>

<p>A long week passed, and then to Frederick’s joyful relief Captain Auld
came for his boy. In a loud voice he told the sheriff that he was
sending him off to Alabama to a friend of his.</p>

<p>The sheriff looked at Frederick. Pity a clean-looking hand like that
couldn’t behave himself! He spat out a fresh cud of tobacco. It had
lost its taste.</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart fell, but obediently he went with his master. The
next several days went by in comparative idleness on the Auld place
just outside St. Michaels. Frederick’s stature with the other slaves
had grown. By them he was treated as an honored guest, and in this
he found some comfort. But the Alabama friend did not put in an
appearance, and finally Captain Auld announced that he had decided to
send him back to Baltimore again, to live with his brother Hugh. He
told Frederick that he wanted him to learn a trade, and that if he
behaved himself properly he might emancipate him in time.</p>

<p>Frederick could hardly believe his ears. The morning came when they
went into St. Michaels, and there he was placed in the custody of
the captain of a small clipper. They set sail over the waters of the
Chesapeake Bay toward Baltimore.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Five"><span class="smcap">Chapter Five</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>One more river to cross</i><br>
</p>


<p>On its way to the sea, the Patapsco River cuts through the old city
of Baltimore. Here the fall line—the point where the harder rocks of
the Piedmont meet the softer rocks of the coastal plain—moves close
to the coast, and the deep estuary affords a large sheltered harbor.
Baltimore was a divided city: by temperament, dreamily looking toward
the South; but, during business hours at least, briskly turning her
face to the North. The old English families seemed to be dwindling, and
the “upstarts” wanted business.</p>

<p>Early in the nineteenth century, Baltimore became second only to New
York as port of entry for immigrants from Europe—Irish, Italians,
Greeks, Poles, Scandinavians. They spread out from Baltimore all
over Maryland. The increase of population in Baltimore, especially
foreign or non-British population, made the counties afraid. When
the Federalists were overthrown in 1819 the issue of apportioning
of delegates by population came up in the Assembly. It was defeated
because the counties refused to place the great agricultural state of
Maryland “at the feet of the merchants, the bank speculators, lottery
office keepers, the foreigners and the mob of Baltimore.”</p>

<p>For many years this attitude helped to retard enfranchisement of Jews.
Not until 1826 were Jews allowed to vote. This was just two years after
thin, stoop-shouldered Benjamin Lundy came walking down out of the
backwoods of Tennessee, a printing press on his back, and began turning
out the <cite>Genius of Universal Emancipation</cite>, first antislavery
journal to appear in the whole country.</p>

<p>After the “Jew Bill” got by, Baltimoreans paid more attention to
Lundy’s journal. There was talk of “outside influence”; and one day
Austin Woolfolk, a notoriously mean slave-trader, beat up the editor on
the street and nearly killed him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p>

<p>The city’s business was expanding. Shipbuilding had started in the
Colonial days. With the new roads bringing in products from the west,
merchants were soon making shipments in their own vessels and the
town’s prominence as a seaport was assured. By 1810 the city had become
the third largest in America. The population had quadrupled since the
Declaration of Independence, mainly because of the maritime business.
Baltimore clippers brought coffee from South America, tea and opium
from China, and slaves from Africa.</p>

<p>It was well known that smuggling sprang up, after the importation of
African slaves was made a felony. By 1826 the interstate traffic was
enormous. Boatloads of slaves, manacled together, were conveyed in
sailing vessels along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts to New Orleans,
great slave mart of the South. These cargoes of living freight were
listed openly in the papers with the regular shipping news. Law or
no law, the great city of Baltimore had little patience with “loose
talk” about so lucrative a market. A meddling outsider, William Lloyd
Garrison, was thrown in jail. Publication of the <cite>Genius</cite> ceased,
and all copies of the incendiary journal were destroyed. At least
that’s what the merchants thought. But old marked sheets had a way of
turning up in the queerest places!</p>

<p>Even as a child—a slave child, following his young master from place
to place—Frederick had not been wholly unaware of the swelling,
pushing traffic of the growing city. As he sat on the school steps
waiting for Tommy to come out, he watched heavy carts go by on their
way to the wharf. Sometimes one would get stuck in the mud; and then,
while the mule pulled and backed, the “furriners” yelled funny-sounding
words. A stalk of sugar cane dropped from the load made a good find.
If it was not too large, Frederick would hide it until night. Then he
and Tommy would munch the sweet fiber, the little master in his bed,
the slave stretched out on the floor. The day came when the growing
boys slipped off to the wharves where vessels from the West Indies
discharged their freight of molasses, to gorge themselves on the stolen
sweet, extracted on a smooth stick inserted through a bunghole.</p>

<p>Frederick had seen coffles of slaves trudge through Baltimore
streets—men and women and sometimes little children chained together.
The boys always stopped playing and stared after them.</p>

<p>The year 1836 had been a good year for the South. Cotton was rolling
up into a gleaming ball—an avalanche which would one day bring ruin;
but now prices were soaring. On the June evening when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> Frederick sailed
into Baltimore’s harbor, tall masts of square-rigged vessels bowed and
dipped. They spoke to him of places in the far corners of the world;
they beckoned to him. He nodded, his heart leaping.</p>

<p>He had left Baltimore a child; he returned a man. He looked around now,
thinking, evaluating, remembering places he must go, people he must
look up.</p>

<p>But first, there was Mr. Hugh Auld waiting for him on wharf. Tommy was
nowhere in sight. Then he remembered. Tommy also was a man—a free,
white man. A little stab of pain shot through Frederick.</p>

<p>Hugh Auld and his brother Thomas had come South to seek their fortunes.
Raised in Vermont, they had found the lush softness of Maryland very
pleasant. Employed by Colonel Lloyd on his rolling tidewater acres,
Hugh had in due time married the Colonel’s youngest daughter and set up
business in Baltimore. Hugh Auld had prospered. He was now part owner
of a shipyard. Soon it would be Auld &amp; Son.</p>

<p>“Good evening, Captain. I see you’ve got my boy.”</p>

<p>Mr. Auld greeted the captain though Frederick had hurried forward, his
face alight.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir; shipshape, sir. And not a mite of trouble.” Nantucket Bay
was more familiar to the captain than Chesapeake, but he liked the
southern waters and he found Baltimore people friendly. They stood
chatting a while and Frederick waited.</p>

<p>“Well, I thank you.” Mr. Auld was adjusting his panama hat. “Now I’ll
be taking him off your hands.”</p>

<p>“Go along, boy!” the Captain said.</p>

<p>Mr. Auld stepped to the waiting rig, motioning Frederick to climb up
beside the driver, and they were off toward Lower Broadway. They wound
their way between warehouses, great piles of cotton bales and tobacco,
pyramided kegs of rum and stinking fish markets; and finally Mr. Auld
spoke.</p>

<p>“So, Fred, we’re going to make a caulker out of you!”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir.” Frederick turned his head.</p>

<p>“Well, you’re big and strong. Ought to make a good worker. Watch
yourself!”</p>

<p>After that they drove in silence, the driver casting sidelong glances
at Frederick, neither slave saying anything. Their time to talk would
come later. The rig bumped over the cobblestones on Thames Street<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> with
its shops and saloons, and came out into a pleasant residential section
of shuttered windows, dormered roofs and paneled doors.</p>

<p>Here the June evening was lovely. They passed a fine old house beside
which a spreading magnolia tree, all in bloom, spilt its fragrance out
into the street. In gardens behind wrought-iron handrails children were
quietly playing. Young dandies passed along the sidewalks, parading
before demure young misses. On white stoop or behind green lattice,
the young ladies barely raised their eyes from their needlework. Negro
servants moved to and fro, wearing bright red bandanas and carrying
market baskets tilted easily on their heads. They passed a gray
cathedral and came to a small brick house with white marble steps and
white-arched vestibule.</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart turned over. The house had been freshly painted,
the yard trimmed and cut. The place with its lace curtains had an air
of affluence which Frederick did not recall; but this had been the
nearest thing to a home that he had ever known, and he felt affection
for it. Was Tommy at home? After the master had descended, they drove
around back. There was the cellar door down which he and Tommy had
slid; the gnarled tree was gone. He wondered what Tommy had done with
the notebooks they had hid inside the trunk—those notebooks in which
Frederick had so painfully traced his young master’s letters. As they
climbed down from the rig Frederick, trying to keep the urgency from
his voice, turned to the boy.</p>

<p>“Is Master—Master Tommy at home?”</p>

<p>The black boy stared at him a moment without answering. Then he asked,
“Young Massa?” And at Frederick’s nod, “Yes—Massa Thomas, he hyear.”</p>

<p>So it was “Master Thomas” now. Frederick checked his sigh as he smiled
at this boy of his own color.</p>

<p>“My name’s Fred. What’s yours?” he said cordially.</p>

<p>“I Jeb.” The boy answered immediately, but there was a puzzled look on
his face. They were unhitching the horse now. He cleared his throat and
burst out, “Say, yo’—Yo’ talks lak white folks. Huccome?”</p>

<p>Frederick hesitated. Should he tell him about the notebooks and reading
lessons—that he and the Young Master had learned together? He decided
not. So he only laughed and said, “Fiddlesticks!”</p>

<p>Jeb studied the newcomer covertly as they went inside. He liked this
Fred—liked the way he looked at you—liked the way he walked; but Jeb
recognized that here was something to think about.</p>

<p>The ugly, gaunt woman at the stove turned when they entered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> the
kitchen. She did not smile, and Frederick felt her dark eyes, set deep
in bony sockets, take him in from head to foot. Then she motioned them
to places at the scrubbed pine board. They sat down on stools.</p>

<p>“Hit’s Nada.” Jeb leaned forward and whispered. “She free! She free
’oman!”</p>

<p>Now it was Frederick’s turn to stare at the big woman. She moved
slowly, clumsily, as if the springs of her body were giving way. The
deep ridges of her face were pitted with smallpox, the scars extending
from her eyes to the wide sad space of her mouth. But she was free, and
Frederick looked at her with envy.</p>

<p>There were several hundred “free people of color” in Baltimore at
this time. Their lot was one of inconceivable hardship. Yet no slave
having purchased or having been granted his freedom ever voluntarily
went back into slavery. Under the laws of the state, he had no rights
as a citizen. At times he was restrained from working at certain
occupations, from selling tobacco and other commodities without a
certificate from the justice of peace. He couldn’t keep a dog, carry
firearms, belong to a secret order, or sell spirituous liquors. The
mere word of a white man could convict the Negro of any offense. And
punishment was swift and severe.</p>

<p>These people did what work they could for the smallest possible
wages—as caulkers in the shipyards, hod carriers, dock workers. A few
were good bricklayers and carpenters. No matter what their work, they
had to take what they were given. Therefore, they were despised and
hated by white workers who were often ousted by this cheaper labor.
The rising merchant and business class of the city found it cheaper to
employ such help for a few cents a week than to buy slaves to work in
their homes. A master had some responsibility for his slave’s upkeep.
He had none for his “paid servants.” So, Nada worked for Mrs. Hugh Auld
from six o’clock in the morning until eight or nine at night. Then she
disappeared down the alley—no one ever bothered to find out where.</p>

<p>After supper Mrs. Auld came back to speak to Frederick. She was a Lloyd
and remembered Frederick’s grandmother. Now she asked after her foster
sister, Captain Auld’s wife, whom she had not seen for many years. She
had a moment of nostalgia for those girlhood days on the plantation,
and patted his arm.</p>

<p>“You’ve grown to be a fine, upstanding boy,” she said. “We’re proud of
you!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p>

<p>Master Thomas did not come.</p>

<p>It was not until the next afternoon when he had been set to work in the
shipyard that he heard a pleasant voice at his elbow.</p>

<p>“Hello, Fred! They tell me you’re going to build ships.”</p>

<p>He looked up at the tall, clean young man in his tailored suit. He
tried to smile.</p>

<p>“Yes, Massa Thomas,” he said, but his voice was gruff.</p>

<p>Something like a veil slipped over the white man’s face. They stood
there a moment facing each other. And the cloud, which in their boyhood
had been no larger than a man’s hand, now enveloped them. Frederick
hardly heard his words as he turned away.</p>

<p>“Well—Good luck! So long!”</p>

<p>Frederick never saw him again. A few days afterward Thomas Auld sailed
on one of his father’s ships. A year later he was drowned in a gale off
the coast of Calcutta.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>William Gardiner, big shipbuilder on Fells Point, was having trouble.
Some time before he had put down demands for higher wages in his yard
by peremptorily hiring a number of colored mechanics and carpenters.</p>

<p>“And damned good mechanics!” he had pointedly informed his foreman.
“Now you can tell those blasted micks, kikes and dagos they can leave
any time they don’t like what we’re paying.”</p>

<p>Labor organizations were getting troublesome in Baltimore, but so far
he had been fairly lucky in getting around them. He shuddered, however,
looking into the bleak future. He’d better save all the money he could
now by hiring more cheap niggers.</p>

<p>The white workers had swallowed their disappointment. Some of the more
skilled did leave, swearing vengeance, but most of them hung on to
their jobs.</p>

<p>“If we could only kill off these niggers!”</p>

<p>They did what they could, seriously injuring several, and bided their
time.</p>

<p>Their chance came when Gardiner ambitiously contracted to build two
large man-of-war vessels, professedly for the Mexican government. It
was a rush job. The vessels were to be launched in August. Failure
to do so would cause the shipbuilder to forfeit a very considerable
sum of money. Work was speeded up. Some of the blacks were given jobs
requiring the highest skill.</p>

<p>Then, all at once, the white carpenters swore they would no longer work
beside the freedmen.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p>

<p>William Gardiner saw his money sinking to the bottom of Chesapeake Bay.
Frantic, he appealed to his friend and associate, Hugh Auld. The small
shipbuilder was flattered. Gardiner was a powerful man. Mr. Auld took
the matter under consideration and came up with a solution.</p>

<p>“Let some of the niggers go,” he said. “Then take over a lot of
apprentices—whites and blacks. Work them at top speed under good
supervision. You’ll pull through.”</p>

<p>The older man frowned, pulling at his stubby mustache.</p>

<p>“Oh, come now.” Mr. Auld clapped his friend on the back. “I’ve got
several good boys I can let you have.”</p>

<p>Frederick was one of the apprentices sent to the Fells Point shipyard.
He had worked hard and under very good instruction. But when he arrived
at Gardiner’s yard he found himself in a very different situation.</p>

<p>Here everything was hurry and drive. His section had about a hundred
men; of these, seventy or eighty were regular carpenters—privileged
men. There was no time for a raw hand to learn anything. Frederick was
directed to do whatever the carpenters told him. This placed him at the
beck and call of about seventy-five men. He was to regard all of them
as his masters. He was called a dozen ways in the space of a single
minute. He needed a dozen pairs of hands.</p>

<p>“Boy, come help me cant this here timber.”</p>

<p>“Boy, bring that roller here!”</p>

<p>“Hold on the end of this fall.”</p>

<p>“Hullo, nigger! Come turn this grindstone.”</p>

<p>“Run bring me a cold chisel!”</p>

<p>“I say, darky, blast your eyes! Why don’t you heat up some pitch?”</p>

<p>It went on hour after hour. “Halloo! Halloo! Halloo!”—“Come here—go
there—hold on where you are.” “Damn you, if you move I’ll knock your
brains out!”</p>

<p>Although Frederick was only an apprentice, he was one of the hated
threats to their security. They had no mercy on him. The white
apprentices felt it degrading to work with him. Encouraged by the
workmen, they began talking contemptuously about “the niggers,” saying
they wanted to “take over the country” and that they ought to be
“killed off.”</p>

<p>One day the powder keg exploded.</p>

<p>It was a hot afternoon. Frederick had just lowered a heavy timber into
place. Someone called him. He stepped back quickly, jostling against
Edward North, meanest bully of them all. North struck him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> viciously.
Whereupon, with one sweep, Frederick picked up the white fellow and
threw him down hard upon the deck.</p>

<p>They set on him in a pack. One came in front, armed with a brick, one
at each side, and one behind. They closed in, and Frederick, knowing he
was fighting now for his life, struck out on all sides at once. A heavy
blow with a handspike brought him down among the timbers. They rushed
him then and began to pound him with their fists. He lay for a moment
gathering strength, then rose suddenly to his knees, throwing them off.
Just as he did this one of their number planted a blow with his boot in
Frederick’s left eye. When they saw his face covered with blood there
was a pause.</p>

<p>Meanwhile scores of men looked on at this battle of four against one.</p>

<p>“Kill him!” they shouted. “Kill the nigger. He hit a white boy!”</p>

<p>Frederick was staggering, but he grabbed up a handspike and charged.
This time they were taken by surprise. But then several of the
carpenters grabbed Frederick and held him powerless. He was sobbing
with rage. What could he do against fifty men—laughing, jeering,
cursing him? At that moment the division superintendent was seen coming
to investigate the uproar. They thinned out. Taking advantage of the
lull, Frederick dropped over the side of the hull and escaped from the
yard. He knew he would find no justice at the hands of the authorities
there.</p>

<p>Bleeding and battered, he made his way home, nearly frightening the
wits out of Jeb. At Nada’s call, Mrs. Auld came running to the kitchen.
She had them carry him to his attic room, and herself saw that his
wounds were bathed. She bound up his battered eye with a piece of fresh
beef.</p>

<p>“The brutes! The beastly brutes!” she kept saying while she rubbed his
head with ointment.</p>

<p>There was no question about Mr. Auld’s reaction when he reached home
that evening. He was furious. It never entered his head that his
friend, William Gardiner, was in any way to blame. He heaped curses on
the shipyard ruffians; it might well be some “Irish plot,” and he was
going to see that the scoundrels were punished.</p>

<p>Just as soon as Frederick was somewhat recovered from his bruises,
Mr. Auld took him to Esquire Watson’s office on Bond Street, with a
view to procuring the arrest of the four workers. The Master gave the
magistrate an account of the outrage. Mr. Watson, sitting quietly with
folded hands, heard him through.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p>

<p>“And who saw this assault of which you speak, Mr. Auld?” he coolly
inquired.</p>

<p>“It was done, sir, in the presence of a shipyard full of hands.”</p>

<p>The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot move in this matter, except upon the oath
of white witnesses.”</p>

<p>“But here’s my boy. Look at his head and face!” Mr. Auld was losing his
temper.</p>

<p>“I am not authorized to do anything unless white witnesses come forward
and testify on oath as to what took place.”</p>

<p>For one flashing moment the veil was torn from Hugh Auld’s eyes. His
blood froze with horror. It would have been the same had the boy been
killed! He took Frederick by the arm and spoke roughly.</p>

<p>“Let’s get out of here!”</p>

<p>For several days Hugh Auld fussed and fumed. He went to call on Mr.
Gardiner. The big shipbuilder received the younger man coolly.</p>

<p>“You’re loosing your head, Auld,” he observed shrewdly, “and you’re
following a line that may cause you to lose your shirt. Do you think
I’m going to upset my shipyard because one fresh nigger got his head
cracked? I’ve got contracts to fill.”</p>

<p>“But—” Mr. Auld’s confidence was oozing out.</p>

<p>“Of course,” continued Mr. Gardiner, still cold, “I’ll compensate you
for any expense you’ve had. Did you have to get a doctor to patch him
up?” He reached for his wallet.</p>

<p>Outside, with the August sun blistering the boardwalks, Hugh Auld
shivered.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Before the year had passed it was decided that Frederick would be more
valuable to his master as a journeyman caulker than working in his
small shipyard. He was therefore allowed to seek paying employment. He
was in the enviable position of being able to pick his job and demand
wages. He was known as “Hugh Auld’s boy” and was reputed remarkably
bright and dependable. He made his own contracts and collected his
earnings, bringing in six and seven dollars a week during the busy
season. At the end of some weeks he turned over nine dollars to his
master.</p>

<p>Frederick congratulated himself. His lot was improving. Now he could
increase his little stock of education. On the Eastern Shore he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> had
been the teacher. As soon as he had got work in Baltimore, he began
looking up colored people who could teach him. So it happened that he
heard about the East Baltimore Mental Improvement Society and met a
free colored girl named Anna Murray.</p>

<p>The Oblate Sisters of Providence had been attracted by dark-eyed,
slender Anna Murray. Madame Montell herself had brought the girl to
the side door of St. Mary’s Seminary. She told the sisters she was of
free parentage and employed in her household. Madame wished the girl
carefully instructed.</p>

<p>Then Madame Montell died. And the weeping girl was told that she
had been provided with a dowry—a great feather bed, eider-down
pillows, some real silver and linen, dishes. Her heart was filled with
gratitude. Madame’s relatives did not deprive the faithful girl of her
wealth. They had packed a trunk for her and seen her safely installed
with the nice Wells family on South Carolina Street. All this before
they returned to their beloved France, where Madame had once planned to
take Anna.</p>

<p>The Wellses were not French, but they were gentle people and Anna was
not unhappy with them.</p>

<p>Anna was a great favorite among the free Negroes of Baltimore. She had
had access to Madame’s books, and anything she said was likely to start
an inspiring line of thought. The Negroes from Haiti were drawn to her.
She understood their French, though she herself seldom tried to speak
it.</p>

<p>In spite of the staggering obstacles, groups of free Negroes did manage
to sustain themselves even within the boundaries of slave states. They
ran small businesses, owned property, were trusted in good jobs. In
the 1790’s statesmen from Washington and merchants from Richmond and
Atlanta came to Baltimore to buy the clocks of Benjamin Banneker, Negro
clockmaker.</p>

<p>Any meeting of Negroes was safest in a church. The whites readily
encouraged religious fervor among the “childlike” blacks. “Slaves,
obey your masters” was a Biblical text constantly upon the lips of the
devout. Over all blacks the ease and glories of heaven were sprayed
like ether to deaden present pain. It was especially good for free
Negroes to have lots of religion.</p>

<p>The East Baltimore Mental Improvement Society usually met in the
African Methodist Episcopal Church on Sharp Street. Having carefully
established their purpose by lusty singing and a long, rolling prayer,
watchers were set and copies of the <cite>Freedom’s Journal</cite>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>
published in New York, or a newer paper called the <cite>Liberator</cite>,
were brought out.</p>

<p>One evening a group of shipyard workers from Fells Point had something
to say. They wanted to present a new name for membership.</p>

<p>“He is a young man of character,” their spokesman said.</p>

<p>“A good caulker, steady and industrious,” added his companion.</p>

<p>“He writes and ciphers well,” put in another.</p>

<p>“Invite this newcomer, by all means.” The chairman spoke cordially.
“What is his name?”</p>

<p>There was a moment of embarrassment among the Fells Point workers.</p>

<p>“He is—He is still a—slave.”</p>

<p>A horribly scarred old man with only one leg spat contemptuously. He
had been one of the followers of Gabriel in the Virginian insurrection.
He had seen the twenty-four-year-old giant die without a word. He
himself had been one of the four slaves condemned to die, who had
escaped. Now, he had little patience with “strong young men” who were
content to remain slaves.</p>

<p>“Let ’im be!” He rumbled deep in his throat.</p>

<p>One of the caulkers turned to him. He spoke with deference, but with
conviction.</p>

<p>“Daddy Ben, I have seen him fight. He is a man!”</p>

<p>“His name?” asked the chairman.</p>

<p>“He is known as Frederick.”</p>

<p>So Frederick was admitted to membership. At his first meeting he sat
silent, listening. He felt very humble when these men and women rose to
their feet and read or spoke. His head whirled. It seemed that he could
not bear any more when a young woman, whom he had noticed sitting very
quietly in a corner, rose. She held a paper in her hand, and when she
spoke her voice was low and musical. At first he heard only that music.
He shook himself and tried to attend to what she was saying.</p>

<p>“This third edition of the <cite>Appeal</cite> has been wholly reset and
contains many corrections and important additions. David Walker is
dead, but let us remember that his words are addressed to us, to every
one of us. Remember the preamble to his four articles, his own words
‘To the Colored Citizens of the World, but in particular, and very
expressly, to those of the United States of America.’ The hour is too
late for you to hear the entire text of his final message. But in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> this
time of great stress and discouragement I should like to call your
attention to this one paragraph.”</p>

<p>And then, standing close to the smoking oil lamp, she read from the
paper in her hand:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>“For although the destruction of the oppressors God may not effect by
the oppressed, yet the Lord our God will bring other destruction upon
them, for not infrequently will He cause them to rise up one against
the other, to be split, divided, and to oppress each other. And
sometimes to open hostilities with sword in hand.”</p>
</div>

<p>She sat down then amid complete and thoughtful silence. The meeting
broke up. They dispersed quickly, not loitering on the street, not
walking together. But first Frederick buttonholed his friend from Fells
Point.</p>

<p>“What’s her name?” he whispered. His friend knew whom he meant.</p>

<p>“Anna Murray.”</p>

<p>The bonds of slavery bit deeper than before. The calm, sweet face of
Anna Murray shimmered in his dreams. He had to be free!</p>

<p>He was living and working among free men, in all respects equal to them
in performance. Why then should he be a slave? He was earning a dollar
and a half a day. He contracted for it, worked for it, collected it.
It was paid to him. Turning this money over to Mr. Auld each Saturday
became increasingly painful. He could see no reason why, at the end of
each week, he should pour the rewards of his toil into the purse of a
master.</p>

<p>It is quite possible that Mr. Auld sensed some of this rebellion,
though not its intensity. Each time he carefully counted the money and
each time he looked searchingly at the young man and asked, “Is that
all?”</p>

<p>It would not do to let the boy consider himself too profitable. On the
other hand, when the sum was extra large he usually gave him back a
sixpence or shilling along with a kindly pat.</p>

<p>This dole did not have the intended effect. The slave took it as an
admission of his right to the whole sum. In giving him a few cents the
master was easing his conscience.</p>

<p>Frederick could not think what to do. At this rate he could not even
<i>buy</i> his freedom. To escape he needed money. His free friends
offered a suggestion: that he solicit the privilege of buying his
time.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> It was not uncommon in the large cities. A slave who was
considered trustworthy could, by paying his master a definite sum at
the end of each week, dispose of his time as he liked.</p>

<p>Frederick decided to wait until his actual master, Captain Auld, came
up to Baltimore to make his spring purchases. Master Hugh was only
acting as the Captain’s agent, but Frederick was confident that the
report concerning him given to the Captain would be a good one.</p>

<p>In this he was not disappointed. Captain Auld was told that his slave
had learned well, had worked diligently. But when Frederick presented
his request, the Captain’s face turned red.</p>

<p>“No!” he shouted. “And none of your monkey business!”</p>

<p>He studied the slave’s gloomy face. His own eyes narrowed.</p>

<p>“Get this through your black skull. You can’t run away! There’s no
place you can go that I won’t find you and drag you back.” His voice
was grim. “Next time I won’t be so easy. It’ll be the river!”</p>

<p>He meant he’d “sell him down the river.” Frederick turned away.</p>

<p>“Give ’em an inch and they want an ell,” grumbled the Captain to his
brother.</p>

<p>Hugh Auld shook his head sympathetically. He was having his own
troubles. Along with a lot of other speculators he was beginning to
doubt the wisdom of his “sure” investments. He had taken out stock
in both the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad and the Chesapeake and Ohio
Canal. Now there were dire whispers of an impending crash. The Bank of
Maryland had closed—temporarily, of course—but the weeks were passing
and business was falling off.</p>

<p>Therefore, when, a month later, Frederick came to him with the same
proposition, he said he would think about it. Jobs for journeymen
caulkers were going to be fewer, wages were coming down. He had this
big hulk of a fellow on his hands. No telling what would happen within
the next months. Let him try himself. He told Frederick he could have
all his time on the following terms: he would be required to pay his
master three dollars at the end of each week, board and clothe himself
and buy his own caulking tools. Failure in any of these particulars
would put an end to the privilege.</p>

<p>His words staggered Frederick. The week just ended had not been good.
He had worked only four and a half days. That meant there would be no
sixpence for him tonight. They were standing in the kitchen. Frederick
had been eating when the master came in.</p>

<p>“Well? Speak up?”</p>

<p>Frederick watched his week’s earning go into the small black<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> pouch. A
slight movement from Nada at the stove caused him to look at her. She
was forming the word “Yes” with her lips, nodding her head vigorously
at him. Mr. Auld spoke complacently.</p>

<p>“You see, being your own boss means more than just keeping your money.
Do you want your time or don’t you?”</p>

<p>Frederick’s face did not change expression, but he squared his
shoulders.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir,” he said to Mr. Auld. “I’ll take my time.”</p>

<p>“Very well. You can start Monday.” The master joined his wife in the
living room. She did not like what he told her.</p>

<p>“You shouldn’t let him,” she frowned over her mending. “They can’t look
out after themselves. It’s wicked!”</p>

<p>“He’ll be back.” Mr. Auld settled himself comfortably in his favorite
chair. “The young buck’s restless. This will be a good lesson to him.”</p>

<p>Back in the kitchen Frederick turned worried eyes on Nada. She gave him
one of her rare smiles.</p>

<p>“No worry!” she said. “Yo’ come live by me.”</p>

<p>Jeb was appalled. Frederick had taught him to read, and he regarded the
young man with something akin to adoration. That night in their attic
room they talked.</p>

<p>“Yo’ gonna run away! Yo’ gonna run away!” All the terrors of pursuing
hounds, starvation and dragging chains choked the boy’s voice.</p>

<p>“Hush!” Frederick gripped his shoulder. Then he whispered fiercely, “Do
you want to be a slave all your life?”</p>

<p>“No! Oh, Jesus! No!” He began to sob.</p>

<p>“Then keep still—and let me go!”</p>

<p>The boy gulped piteously. He put his mouth close to Frederick’s ear.</p>

<p>“Take me wid yo’, Fred, take me wid yo’! I not feared.” But Frederick
pushed him away gently.</p>

<p>“Don’t talk. Wait!”</p>

<p>“Yo’ not forget me?”</p>

<p>And Frederick promised. “I will not forget.”</p>

<p>The following evening when Nada disappeared down the alley, Frederick
was with her.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Events now moved rapidly. The entire membership of the East Baltimore
Mental Improvement Society was concerned with Frederick.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> They all knew
what he was trying to do. The caulkers were on the alert for any extra
jobs, older men advised, and Anna Murray’s eyes began to glow softly.
Sometimes Frederick entered into the discussions at the meeting now,
but usually he sat silent, listening. Afterward he walked home with
Anna, avoiding the lighted streets. And he poured into her willing ear
his whole mad scheme. The stringent cordon thrown around Baltimore to
prevent slaves from escaping demanded a bold plan. Frederick knew that
he had to get well away or he would surely be captured, and he knew
that a second failure would be fatal.</p>

<p>The railroad from Baltimore to Philadelphia was under such rigid
regulations that even free colored travelers were practically excluded.
They had to carry free papers on their persons—papers describing
the name, age, color, height and form of the traveler, especially
any scars or other marks he had. Negroes were measured and carefully
examined before they could enter the cars, and they could only go in
the daytime. The steamboats had similar rules. British seamen of color
were forbidden to land at Southern ports. An American seaman of African
descent was required to have always on him a “sailor’s protection,”
describing the bearer and certifying to the fact that he was a free
American sailor.</p>

<p>One night Frederick was introduced to a sailor who appeared to be well
known to the group. The older ones, standing round, studied the two
young men talking together. Then Daddy Ben said briefly, “It will do!”</p>

<p>After that Frederick spent every moment away from his work in the
sailor’s company. They leaned over bars in crowded saloons off Lower
Broadway and swapped talk with old salts who had not yet recovered
their land legs. They swore at the fresh young landlubber, but his
friend, laughing heartily, warded off their blows.</p>

<p>On the last Sunday in August, as was his custom, Frederick reported
with his three dollars.</p>

<p>“I’m taking Mrs. Auld to the country over next Sunday,” Mr. Auld said.
“This awful heat is bad for her. Come in next Monday.”</p>

<p>Frederick knew the time had come. He reported at each place punctually
that week. He took every extra job he could find. Sunday evening he
slipped into the little garden behind the house on South Carolina
Street. Anna was waiting.</p>

<p>“Take care! Oh, take care!” she whispered.</p>

<p>“You’ll be getting a letter from up North—soon!” he boasted.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p>

<p>The next morning the Philadelphia train was puffing into the Baltimore
and Ohio station when a swaggering young sailor strode across the
platform. Several Negro passengers stood in a huddled group to one
side. All had passed their examinations. The impatient young sailor
did not join them. His bell-bottom trousers flopped about his legs,
the black cravat fastened loosely about his neck was awry, and he
pushed his tarpaulin hat back on his head, as he peered anxiously up
the street. The conductor had yelled “All aboard!” when a ramshackle
old hack drew up. The sailor ran to it, flung open the door before
the stupid old hackman could move, and grabbed a big, battered bag,
plastered with many labels and tied with strong hemp.</p>

<p>“Damn you!” cursed the sailor, “yo’ makin’ me miss ma ship!”</p>

<p>He sprinted for the last car of the train, leaving the blinking old
hackman unpaid. The conductor laughed.</p>

<p>The train was well on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor
reached the last car to collect tickets and look over the colored
folks’ papers. This was rather perfunctory, since he knew they had
all been examined at the station. He chuckled as he spied the sailor
slumped in a back seat, already fast asleep. Bet he’d made a night of
it—several nights, no doubt! Probably overstayed his time and knew the
brig irons were waiting for him. <i>Oh, well, niggers don’t care.</i>
So long as they had their whiskey and women! He shook the sailor
playfully. Frederick stared up at him, blinking.</p>

<p>“All right, sailor boy, your ticket!”</p>

<p>“Yes, <i>suh</i>.” Frederick fumbled in his blouse, producing a not too
clean bit of cardboard. He appeared to be groggy.</p>

<p>“I reckon you got your free papers?”</p>

<p>The fellow showed the whites of his eyes. He shook his head.</p>

<p>“No, suh. Ah nevah carries mah papahs to sea wid me.”</p>

<p>“But you do have something to show you’re a free man, haven’t you?”</p>

<p>The sailor’s face beamed.</p>

<p>“Yes, <i>suh</i>. Ah got a papah right hyear wid da ’Merican eagle
right on hit. Dat little ole bird carries me round da world!”</p>

<p>From somewhere about himself he drew out a paper and unfolded it
carefully. The conductor immediately recognized it as a sailor’s
protection. He looked at the spread American eagle at its head, nodded
and went on down the aisle.</p>

<p>Frederick’s hand was trembling as he folded the paper. It called for
a man much darker than himself. Close examination would have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> brought
about not only his arrest, but the arrest and severe punishment of the
sailor who had lent it to him.</p>

<p>The danger was not over. After Maryland they passed through Delaware,
another slave state, where slave-catchers would be awaiting their prey.
It was at the borders that they were most vigilant.</p>

<p>They reached Havre de Grace, where the Susquehanna River had to be
crossed by ferry. Frederick was making his way to the rail so that he
could stand with his back to the other passengers, when he literally
bumped into Henry!</p>

<p>Henry saw him first. In a second the big fellow pushed him violently
to one side; and so Mr. William Freeland did not catch a glimpse of
the young sailor. A sailor who no longer swaggered but whose legs
hardly managed to bear him up as he clung to the rail. On shore Henry,
watching the ferry pull away from the dock, was also trembling.</p>

<p>“What’s the matter with you, Henry?” asked Mr. Freeland. The fellow
looked as if he was going to be sick.</p>

<p>“Nothin’, suh! Nothin’ at all!” Henry answered quickly.</p>

<p>On the other side of the river Frederick ran into a new danger. A
German blacksmith for whom he had worked only a few days before looked
him full in the face. Two trains had stopped on tracks next to each
other—one going south, the other going north. The blacksmith was
returning to Baltimore. The windows were open and Frederick, sitting
close to his window, was bareheaded. The German opened his mouth. Then
his face froze like Frederick’s. He flicked ashes from his big cigar
and turned away from the window.</p>

<p>Frederick sank back into his seat, closed his eyes and pulled his hat
over his face as if he were asleep.</p>

<p>The last danger point, and the one he dreaded most, was Wilmington.
Here he had to leave the train and take the steamboat for Philadelphia.
It was an hour of torture, but no one stopped him; and finally he was
out on the broad and beautiful Delaware on his way to the Quaker City.</p>

<p>He had eaten nothing and his head felt very light as he stood on the
deck. He knew that never would he see anything so beautiful as that
river. Yet he dared not relax one moment of watchfulness.</p>

<p>They reached Philadelphia late in the afternoon. The sky was a crimson
glow as he stepped first upon free soil. He wanted to shout and sing,
but he had been warned not to pause until he reached New York—there
only might he savor the taste of freedom. He asked the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> first colored
man he saw in Philadelphia how he could get to New York. The man
directed him to the Willow Street depot. He went there at once, and
had no trouble buying a ticket. During the several hours’ wait for his
train, he did not leave the station. It seemed as if the train would
never come, but at last he was safely aboard.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>He thought something was wrong. It was still dark, but all the
passengers were getting off. He was afraid to ask questions.</p>

<p>“Come on, sailor!” the conductor said. And when he looked up stupidly,
the conductor added, “It’s the ferry. You have to take the ferry over
to Manhattan.”</p>

<p>He watched the skyline of New York come up out of the dawn. The hoarse
whistles along the waterfront made a song; the ships’ bells rang
out freedom. He walked across the gangplank, set his battered bag
down on the wharf and looked back. The busy river was like a crowded
thoroughfare. A barefoot Negro had leaned against a pile, watching him.</p>

<p>“What river is this, boy?” Frederick asked. The boy stared.</p>

<p>“That’s tha Hudson River. Where you come from, sailor?”</p>

<p>The fugitive from slavery’s Eastern Shore smiled.</p>

<p>“A long way, boy. I’ve crossed a heap of rivers!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Then, early in the morning of September 4, 1838, he walked up into New
York City. He was free!</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="Part_II">Part II</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>THE LIGHTNING</i><br>
</p>


<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">And what man moves but on the crest of history!</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The spark flashes from each to each.</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">The incandescence fuses—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Blooms out of the ghetto pit—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Roars to the sky—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Fans into a fiery liberty tree</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Showering its seed to the last beaches of the embattled earth!</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>


<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">Harry Granick</span><br>
</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Six"><span class="smcap">Chapter Six</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Is this a thing, or can it be a man?</i><br>
</p>


<p>Freedom is a hard-bought thing! Frederick expected to remain in New
York. He was free, he had money in his pocket, he would find work.
He had no plans beyond reaching this big city, where there were
Abolitionists who printed papers calling for the freeing of the slaves,
and many free Negroes. Here he could work in safety.</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr">Voila!</i>” murmured a little French seamstress, peeping through
the slits of her blinds as the jaunty figure came in view. She
had seen such stepping before, such lifting of the head, such a
singing with the shoulders. She remembered free men marching into
the Place de la Concorde. She smiled and hummed a few bars of the
“<i lang="fr">Marseillaise</i>.” “<i lang="fr">Allons, enfants.... Marchons....</i>” She
threw the shutters open. What a beautiful morning!</p>

<p>But Frederick didn’t find work that first day. By nightfall he was
feeling uneasy. Job-hunting had brought him up against an unexpected
wall. The colored people he saw seemed to be avoiding him. He walked
straight up to the next Negro he saw and spoke to him. From his
bespattered appearance, and his pail and brush, Frederick judged the
man to be a house painter.</p>

<p>“Good evening, mister! Could you tell me where I might find a place to
stay? I just got here and—”</p>

<p>The man’s eyes in his sunken, dark face were rolling in every direction
at once.</p>

<p>“Lemme be. I donno nothin’.” He was moving on, but Frederick blocked
his path.</p>

<p>“Look, mister, I only want—”</p>

<p>The man’s tones were belligerent, though his voice was low.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p>

<p>“Donno nothin’ ’bout you, sailor. An’ I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’!”</p>

<p>Frederick watched him disappear around a corner. As night came on he
followed a couple of sailors into a smoke-filled eating place. There he
ate well, served by a swarthy, good-natured fellow, whose father that
day had picked olives on a hillside overlooking Rome. Garlic, coarse
laughter, warmth and the tangy smell of seamen mingled in the dimly
lighted room. Some of the men lifted their foamy mugs in greeting as
Frederick sank into a corner. He waved back. But he hurried through his
meal, not daring to linger long for fear of betraying himself.</p>

<p>He walked aimlessly in the gathering gloom. He thought a lamplighter,
lifting his wick to the corner lamp, eyed him suspiciously. Frederick
turned down a dimmer thoroughfare. He was tired. The suitcase was heavy.</p>

<p>Across the street a bearded seaman took his stubby pipe from between
his teeth and looked after the solitary figure. <i>Young sailors do not
carry heavy suitcases, bumping against their legs!</i> The man grunted,
crossed the street and came up behind the young man. He spoke softly.</p>

<p>“Hi, sailor!”</p>

<p>With a start Frederick turned. Now it was his turn to hesitate. In the
fading light he could not distinguish whether the face behind the thick
beard was white or colored. So he only answered, “Hi, yo’self!”</p>

<p>The stranger fell in beside him. “When’d you get in?”</p>

<p>“Yesterday. Up from the West Indies.” The answer came easily.
<i>But</i>, the seaman thought to himself, <i>it’s the wrong
answer</i>. Out of the corner of his eye he studied the young man and
threw out another question.</p>

<p>“What’s your ship?”</p>

<p>Frederick was well prepared for this question.</p>

<p>“The <i>Falcon</i>.”</p>

<p>They walked along in silence, the bearded seaman puffing his pipe.
Frederick waited.</p>

<p>“Might you be headin’ toward the—north star?”</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart leaped. The words could have only one meaning. Yet
was this man friend or foe? Dared he trust him?</p>

<p>“I hear tell the north star leads us straight,” he said.</p>

<p>The stranger took Frederick’s arm.</p>

<p>“It has led you well. Come!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p>

<p>In the little house on Centre Street, Frederick met Tom Stuart’s
mother, a bright-eyed little woman who greeted him warmly. But hardly
could he blurt out an outline of his story before he had fallen
asleep—for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours.</p>

<p>Then Tom Stuart went quickly to the corner of Lispenard and Church
Streets and knocked on the door of David Ruggles, secretary of the New
York Vigilance Committee.</p>

<p>“You are right,” said the secretary, when he heard what the seaman had
to say. “He is not safe here.”</p>

<p>“New York’s full of Southerners. They’re beginning to come back from
the watering-places now,” Stuart added.</p>

<p>“Looking for work down on the waterfront, he’ll be caught.”</p>

<p>The scar on Ruggles’ black face twisted into a smile.</p>

<p>“God’s providence protected him today. Now we must do our part and get
him away.” He covered his sightless eyes with his hand and sat thinking.</p>

<p>David Ruggles had been born free. He was schooled, alert, and he had
courage. But once he had dared too much for his own good. In Ohio an
irate slave-chaser’s whip had cut across his face. Its thongs had torn
at his eyes, and he would never see again. But the slave whom he was
helping to escape had got away. And David Ruggles had said, “My eyes
for a man’s life? We were the winners!”</p>

<p>The seaman cleared his throat.</p>

<p>“There is a girl—a freewoman. She is to meet him here.”</p>

<p>The secretary frowned.</p>

<p>“Good heavens! Haven’t we enough to do without managing love trysts?”</p>

<p>Tom Stuart grinned in the darkness as he walked home. He knew the heart
of this black man. He would show no sign of annoyance the next morning
when he welcomed the young fugitive.</p>

<p>As for Frederick, he wanted to kiss the hands of this blind man
when they clasped his own so firmly. <i>An agent of the Underground
Railroad! Underground Railroad!</i>—a whisper up and down the Eastern
Shore. Now Frederick was to hear them spoken aloud.</p>

<p>The increasing numbers of slaves who were escaping, in spite of
the rigid cordons thrown round the slave states and the terrifying
penalties for failure in the attempt, gave rise to wild rumors. The
bayous of Louisiana, the backlands of Alabama and Mississippi, the
swamps of Florida and the mountains of the Atlantic states, seemed to
suck them in like a man-eating plant. People said there was a colony<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span>
of blacks deep in the Florida scrub, where they lived a life of ease
far inside the bayous that no white man could penetrate. Another group,
so they said, raised crops on the broad flat plains that ran toward the
border of Georgia; and two thousand more hid inside the dismal swamps
of Virginia, coming out to trade with Negroes and whites.</p>

<p>There was no denying the fact that Negroes showed up across the border
of Canada with surprising regularity—slaves from the rice fields of
Georgia and South Carolina, the tobacco lands of Virginia and Maryland,
and the cotton fields of Alabama.</p>

<p>“One thousand slaves a year disappear!” John Calhoun thundered in
Congress. “They go as if swallowed up by an underground passage.”</p>

<p>The idea caught on. Young America expanding—passages opening to new
territory. To a people still using the stagecoach, trains symbolized
daring and adventure. An underground railway to freedom! Men cocked
their hats rakishly, cut off their mustaches and tightened the holsters
at their belts; small shopkeepers put heavy padlocks on their doors
and slipped out to meetings; tall, lean men wearing linen and nankeen
pantaloons—sons of planters among them—emptied their mint juleps and
climbed into the saddle; the devout Quaker put a marker in his Bible
and dug a new deep cellar underneath his house, partitioned off rooms
with false walls and laid in fresh supplies of thick wide cloaks and
long black veils.</p>

<p>What more natural than that slaves down in their quarters sang, <i>Dat
train comin’, hit’s comin’ round da bend!</i> and <i>Git on board, lil’
chillun, git on board!</i></p>

<p>The “train” might be a skiff, securely fastened under overhanging
reeds. Or it might be a peddler’s cart, an open wagon filled with hay,
or the family carryall, driven by a quiet man in a wide-brimmed Quaker
hat, who spoke softly to the ladies sitting beside him, neatly dressed
in gray, with Quaker bonnets on their heads and veils over their faces.
The “train” might simply be a covered-up path through the woods. But
the slave voices rose, exulting:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Da train am rollin’</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Da train am rollin’ by—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Hallelujah!”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Conductors” planned the connections. And David Ruggles in the house
on Church Street routed the train in and out of New York City.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> He
collected and paid out money, received reports and checked routes.
David Ruggles was a busy man.</p>

<p>He heard Frederick through quietly. Frederick was worried. If he could
not stay in New York, where would he go?</p>

<p>“It’s a big country,” Mr. Ruggles assured the young man. “A workman is
worthy of his hire. We shall look about.” Then he asked abruptly, “Have
you written the young lady?”</p>

<p>Frederick felt his face burn. Being among people with whom he could
share his precious secret was a new experience.</p>

<p>“Y-es, sir,” he stammered. “I—I posted a letter this morning—On my
way here.”</p>

<p>He looked toward Tom Stuart, whose eyes were laughing at him. The
seaman put in a word.</p>

<p>“Got up and wrote the letter before dawn!”</p>

<p>“Since she is a freewoman,” Mr. Ruggles smiled, “she can no doubt join
you immediately.”</p>

<p>“Yes—Yes, sir.”</p>

<p>“Very well. Then you must remain under cover until she comes.”</p>

<p>“He’s safe at my house,” Tom Stuart said quickly, and the secretary
nodded.</p>

<p>“That is good,” he said. “And now for the record.”</p>

<p>At this word a slender boy of nine or ten years, who had been sitting
quietly at the table, opened a large ledger and picked up a quill
pen. He said nothing but turned his intelligent, bright eyes toward
Frederick. Mr. Ruggles laid his hand on the boy’s arm.</p>

<p>“My son here is my eyes,” he said.</p>

<p>Frederick regarded the little fellow with amazement. He was going to
write with that pen!</p>

<p>“You are called Frederick?” the father asked.</p>

<p>Frederick gave a start. “I have sometimes heard of another
name—Bailey,” he said. “I—I really don’t know. They call me
Frederick.”</p>

<p>“For the present, we shan’t worry about the surname. It is safer now to
lose whatever identity you might have. Write Frederick Johnson, son!”
The boy wrote easily. “There are so many Johnsons. But now that you are
a free man, you must have a name—a family name.”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes, sir!”</p>

<p>The days passed swiftly. Anna arrived—warmly welcomed by Tom Stuart’s
mother and whisked quickly out of sight until the moment when she
stood beside him. Anna, her eyes pools of happiness, wearing a lovely
plum-colored silk dress! They were married by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> the Reverend J. W. C.
Pennington, whose father, after having been freed by George Washington,
had served him faithfully at Valley Forge. He refused the fee offered
by the eager young bridegroom.</p>

<p>“It is my wedding gift to you, young man. God speed you!”</p>

<p>They were put aboard the steamer <i>John W. Richmond</i>, belonging to
the line running between New York and Newport, Rhode Island.</p>

<p>“New Bedford is your place,” David Ruggles had said. “There are many
Friends in New Bedford, and the shipyards are constantly fitting out
ships for long whaling voyages. A good caulker will find work. Good
luck, my boy!”</p>

<p>Since colored passengers were not allowed in the cabins, the bride and
groom had to pass their first night on the deck. But what mattered
whether they were cold or hot, wet or dry; whether they stood leaning
over the rail, jammed against sticky kegs, or sat on the hard boards?
They were free—they were young—they were on their way, to make a
home, to build a life <i>together</i>.</p>

<p>Oh, how bright the stars shone that night! Anna saw Frederick’s lips
move as he gazed at them. She leaned closer and he tightened his arm
about her. “I must not forget!” he murmured.</p>

<p>The nights on the open deck—they had two of them—enfolded them and
shut out all the world. The ache of all their lonely years dissolved
before the new happiness in their hearts. Then, out of the gray mist
and the darker shadows, emerged the gaunt shores of their new world.
Anna gripped her husband’s arm and trembled. But he lifted her face to
his and kissed her.</p>

<p>As the boat approached New Bedford, the crowded harbor, with its
stained, weather-beaten ships and dirty warehouses, was a golden
gate—let down from the clouds just for them. Frederick wanted to shout.</p>

<p>“Look! Look!” He was pointing at an imposing house that stood on a
hill behind the town. “That’s the kind of house we’ll have. A fine,
big house! I’ll make it with my own hands. I’m free, Anna, I’m free to
build a house like that!”</p>

<p>Her eyes laughed with him.</p>

<p>So it was that they landed on the rocky shores of New England, where
free men had set their feet before them. Leif, son of Eric the Red,
touched this coast with his Norsemen. In 1497 and ’98 John Cabot,
Venetian navigator, explored here and gave England her claim to the
region. Cabot under the British flag, Verrazzano under the <i lang="fr">fleur<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> de
lis</i>, and Gomez under the flag of Spain, all of them had come even
before the Pilgrim Fathers.</p>

<p>It was from Rhode Island—from Roger Williams and Anne Hutchinson, all
part of the rising winds of rebellion—that New Bedford got its start.
Time and again this salty breeze had blown through the Massachusetts
commonwealth. It rose and blew steadily during most of the eighteenth
century, bringing gains in political freedom and education and
religious tolerance. Impoverished farmers had followed Daniel Shays;
and an early governor, James Sullivan, had been stirred to say, “Where
the mass of people are ignorant, poor and miserable, there is no public
opinion excepting what is the offspring of fear.” The winds had died
down during the rise of Federalism, but now once more a little breeze
fanned the cheeks of the mill girls in Lowell and the mechanics in
Boston. It rustled the dead, dry leaves piled high in Cambridge and
Concord. It was scattering the seeds of Abolitionism.</p>

<p>Boston had William Lloyd Garrison, whom neither jails, fires, threats,
nor the elegant rhetoric of William Ellery Channing could stifle. He
waved his paper, the <cite>Liberator</cite>, high in the air, whipping the
breeze higher. He stood his ground and loosed a blast destined to shake
the rafters of the nation.</p>

<p>“Urge me not to use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in
earnest. I will not equivocate. I will not excuse. I will not retreat a
single inch—and I will be heard!”</p>

<p>Certain slave states had set a price on William Lloyd Garrison’s head.
But in February, 1837, the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society had
convened in the hall of the House of Representatives in Boston, and
after every space was filled nearly five thousand people were turned
away. Nathan Johnson had been one of the delegates from New Bedford.</p>

<p>Nathan Johnson was proud of the commonwealth of Massachusetts. His
people had lived in the midst of a group of Dutch dairy farmers
comfortably spread out over the meadowlands near Sheffield. They had
owned a tiny piece of land. Nathan had gone to school, learned a trade
and, like many another Massachusetts farm boy, made a trip to sea.
For a time he had lingered in Scotland where a Negro was a curiosity.
There was something about the hills and valleys with their jutting
rocks that drew him. Then he realized he was homesick. He returned to
Massachusetts, married and plied his trade—he was a carpenter—near
the sight and sound and smell of the sea. He had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> seen the face of
slavery, but he believed the State of Massachusetts would educate the
nation away from such evil practices.</p>

<p>David Ruggles had written Nathan Johnson about Frederick. The answer
had come back: “Send him along!” And Johnson had hurried to the dock to
meet the “poor critters.”</p>

<p>But the young man who stepped from the boat and took his hand with such
a firm grip did not call forth pity. To the Yankee he had the look
neither of a fugitive nor a slave.</p>

<p>Ma Johnson blocked all questions while she bustled about setting a
good, hot meal before the newcomers.</p>

<p>“Dead beat, I know,” was her comment. “Now you just wash up and make
yourselves right at home.” She poured water and handed them thick white
towels, while little Lethia and Jane stared with wide eyes.</p>

<p>Everything floated in a dreamy mist. This house, this abundant table,
this room were unbelievable. Frederick’s fingers itched to take down
the books from their shelves, to pick up papers lying about. With an
effort he brought his eyes back to the animated face of his host.</p>

<p>“There ain’t a thing in the laws or constitution of Massachusetts to
stop a colored man being governor of the state, if the folks sees fit
to elect him!” Lethia nodded her small head gravely and smiled at
Frederick.</p>

<p>Ma Johnson sighed gently. Nathan was off on his favorite
topic—Massachusetts! But that was safe talk for these two nice young
people. They could just eat in peace. She set a plate of savory clam
chowder in front of Anna.</p>

<p>“No slaveholder’d dare try takin’ a slave out of New Bedford!” The
glasses quivered as Johnson thumped the table. Frederick smiled.</p>

<p>“I’m glad to hear that—after what they told me about New York.”</p>

<p>“Humph!” The Yankee snorted. “New York ain’t in Massachusetts, young
man. All sorts of people there. Can’t count on ’em!” Ma Johnson gently
intervened.</p>

<p>“Reckon we have some troublemakers, too, even in New Bedford.”</p>

<p>“Ay, and I reckon we know how to take care of ’em!”</p>

<p>It was Indian summer in New England. The evenings were still long, with
no suggestion of frost in the air. After supper they sat in the yard,
and between long puffs on his pipe the host talked and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> gradually drew
out the young man. Came the moment when he took his pipe from his mouth
and sat forward on his chair, lips pressed together in a grim line.</p>

<p>“I cannot understand how such things be!” he said, shaking his head.</p>

<p>The women had gone inside. Lights shone in the cottage across the
way, and on the other side of the white picket fence a girl laughed.
Frederick stood up. Even in the dusk, Johnson was conscious of the
broad shoulders and the long, lithe limbs. He was looking up at the
trees.</p>

<p>“Almost—Almost I am afraid,” Frederick said.</p>

<p>“Afraid? Now? Your time to be afraid is gone. Now you are safe!”</p>

<p>“That’s it! <i>I</i> am safe. I’m afraid of so much happiness.”</p>

<p>“A mite o’ happiness won’t spoil you, my boy. There’s strength in you.
And now I reckon your wife is waiting.” Nathan Johnson stood up.</p>

<p>Inside the house Frederick turned and clasped the hand of his host.</p>

<p>“How can I thank you?” he asked.</p>

<p>The older man smiled. “Fine words ain’t needed, son. The two of you are
good for Ma and me. Now go ’long with you!”</p>

<p>And he sent him to Anna.</p>

<p>They were awakened by church bells. Then they heard the children
getting off to church. Anna started up guiltily. Perhaps they were
delaying Mrs. Johnson.</p>

<p>But over the house lay a sweet Sabbath calm; it ran all up and down
the street—and over all New Bedford. The day passed in unhurried
discussion of jobs and plans for the young folks. Now indeed Frederick
must have a name.</p>

<p>“Some take the name of their old master.”</p>

<p>“I won’t.” Frederick spoke emphatically.</p>

<p>“Ay,” agreed Nathan. “No sense in tying a stone round your children’s
necks. Give ’em a good name.” He grinned at Frederick and Anna. “When
I look at you I think of somebody I read about—fellow by the name of
Douglass.”</p>

<p>“You want to name him from a book, Pa?” His wife laughed.</p>

<p>“Why not? He’s already got a heap out of books. And this Scotchman,
Douglass, was a fine man. The book says he had a ‘stalwart hand’.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p>

<p>Then Nathan launched into a vivid description of Scotland as he had
seen it. He came back to the name.</p>

<p>“Ay, Douglass is a bonny name.”</p>

<p>Anna spoke softly. “Frederick Douglass—It has a good, strong sound.”</p>

<p>“You like it, Anna?” Frederick’s eyes drew her to him.</p>

<p>And Anna smiled, nodding her head. So Douglass was the name he passed
on to their children.</p>

<p>The next day he went down to the wharves and caught his first view of
New England shipping.</p>

<p>“The sight of the broad brim and the plain, Quaker dress,” he recalled
later, “which met me at every turn, greatly increased my sense of
freedom and security. <i>I am among the Quakers</i>, thought I, <i>and
am safe</i>. Lying at the wharves and riding in the stream, were
full-rigged ships of finest model, ready to start on whaling voyages.
Upon the right and the left, I was walled in by large granite-fronted
warehouses, crowded with the good things of this world. On the wharves,
I saw industry without bustle, labor without noise, and heavy toil
without the whip. There was no loud singing, as in Southern ports
where ships are loading or unloading—no loud cursing or swearing—but
everything went on as smoothly as the works of a well-adjusted machine.
How different was all this from the noisily fierce and clumsily absurd
manner of labor-life in Baltimore and St. Michaels! One of the first
incidents which illustrated the superior mental character of Northern
labor over that of the South, was the manner of unloading a ship’s
cargo of oil. In a Southern port, twenty or thirty hands would have
been employed to do what five or six did here, with the aid of a single
ox hitched to the end of a fall. Main strength, unassisted by skill, is
slavery’s method of labor. An old ox worth eighty dollars was doing in
New Bedford what would have required fifteen thousand dollars’ worth
of human bone and muscle to have performed in a Southern port.... The
maid servant, instead of spending at least a tenth part of her time
in bringing and carrying water, as in Baltimore, had the pump at her
elbow. Wood-houses, indoor pumps, sinks, drains, self-shutting gates,
washing machines, pounding barrels, were all new things, and told me
that I was among a thoughtful and sensible people. The carpenters
struck where they aimed, and the caulkers wasted no blows in idle
flourishes of the mallet.”<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span></p>

<p>He remembered little about the hardships of that first winter in the
North, and only mentioned in passing that he was not permitted to use
his skill as a caulker. Even here white labor shut the black worker
out. The difference between the wage of a caulker and that of a common
day-laborer was 50 per cent. But Frederick would not be stopped. He was
free. So he sawed wood, dug cellars, shoveled coal, rolled oil casks
on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels. It was the cold that he
remembered.</p>

<p>Nothing had prepared them for the cold—the silent, thick, gray cold
that shut down like a vise over the land. The tiny house on a back
street, which had seemed the fulfillment of their dreams, now was a
porous shed. It had none of the Northern conveniences, and each trip
through the snowdrifts to the distant well with its frozen buckets was
a breath-taking effort.</p>

<p>Each morning Anna got her husband’s breakfast by candlelight, and
Frederick set out for work. Odd jobs were not as easy to find nor as
steady as he would have liked. Many cotton mills in New England were
still that winter, and many ships lay idle all along Cape Cod. Down in
Washington a new President was proving himself weak and ineffectual.
Banks were tottering and business houses were going down in ruins. This
was the year Susan B. Anthony’s father lost his factory, his store,
his home; and the eighteen-year-old Quaker girl, with Berkshire hills
mirrored in her eyes, went out to teach school.</p>

<p>During the hardest part of the winter, Frederick’s wages were less than
ten dollars for the month. He and Anna were pinched for food. But they
were never discouraged: they were living in a new world. When he could,
Frederick attended the meetings of colored people of New Bedford. These
meetings went far beyond the gatherings of the East Baltimore Mental
Improvement Society, and once more Frederick sat silent, listening and
learning. He was constantly amazed at the resolutions presented and
discussions which followed. All the speakers seemed to him possessed of
marvelously superior talents.</p>

<p>Two events during his first months in New Bedford had a decisive effect
upon his life.</p>

<p>“Among my first concerns on reaching New Bedford,” he said years
later, “was to become united with the church, for I had never given
up, in reality, my religious faith. I had become lukewarm and in a
backslidden state, but I was still convinced that it was my duty to
join the church.... I therefore resolved to join the Methodist church
in New Bedford and to enjoy the spiritual advantage of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> public worship.
The minister of the Elm Street Methodist Church was the Reverend Mr.
Bonney; and although I was not allowed a seat in the body of the house,
and was proscribed on account of my color, regarding this proscription
simply as an accommodation of the unconverted congregation who had not
yet been won to Christ and his brotherhood, I was willing thus to be
proscribed, lest sinners should be driven away from the saving power of
the Gospel. Once converted, I thought they would be sure to treat me
as a man and a brother. <i>Surely,</i> thought I, <i>these Christian
people have none of this feeling against color</i>....</p>

<p>“An opportunity was soon afforded me for ascertaining the exact
position of Elm Street Church on the subject.... The occasion ...
was the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper.... At the close of his (Mr.
Bonney’s) discourse, the congregation was dismissed and the church
members remained to partake of the sacrament. I remained to see, as
I thought, this holy sacrament celebrated in the spirit of its great
Founder.</p>

<p>“There were only about a half dozen colored members attached to the
Elm Street Church, at this time.... These descended from the gallery
and took a seat against the wall most distant from the altar. Brother
Bonney was very animated, and sung very sweetly, ‘Salvation, ’tis
a joyful sound,’ and soon began to administer the sacrament. I was
anxious to observe the bearing of the colored members, and the result
was most humiliating. During the whole ceremony, they looked like sheep
without a shepherd. The white members went forward to the altar by the
bench full; and when it was evident that all the whites had been served
with the bread and wine, Brother Bonney—pious Brother Bonney—after
a long pause, as if inquiring whether all the white members had been
served, and fully assuring himself on that important point, then raised
his voice to an unnatural pitch, and looking to the corner where his
black sheep seemed penned, beckoned with his hand, exclaiming, ‘Come
forward, colored friends!—come forward! You, too, have an interest in
the blood of Christ. God is no respecter of persons. Come forward, and
take this holy sacrament to your comfort.’ The colored members—poor,
slavish souls—went forward, as invited. I went <i>out</i>, and have
never been in that church since, although I honestly went there with
the view of joining that body.”<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>

<p>The second event was happier. Not long after they moved into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>
little house a young man knocked on their door. Frederick had just
come in from a particularly hard and unproductive day. Anna, turning
from the stove where she was about to serve the evening meal, listened
attentively. She wanted to say something. Then she heard Frederick’s
tired voice, “Subscribe? the <cite>Liberator</cite>?”</p>

<p>“Yes,” the young man spoke briskly, “You know, William Lloyd Garrison’s
Abolitionist paper. Surely <i>we</i> ought to support him!”</p>

<p>Anna moved to the doorway, but Frederick was shaking his head.</p>

<p>“I wish I could, but—We—I can’t—now.”</p>

<p>Anna slipped her hand in his. It was warm and a little moist. The young
man understood. He cleared his throat.</p>

<p>“You’d <i>like</i> to read it?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Oh, yes!” It was Anna who breathed the answer.</p>

<p>“Then—you can pay me later!”</p>

<p>“Oh, Freddie, that’s wonderful!” Anna said, but her eyes were beaming
at the young man, who grinned and disappeared around the corner.</p>

<p>“<i>She’s</i> got brains!” he thought, with thorough appreciation.</p>

<p>Back at the stove, Anna was fairly singing.</p>

<p>“We hardly dared get the <cite>Liberator</cite> through the mail in
Baltimore. Now to think we can sit in our own yard and read it!”</p>

<p>Every week Anna watched eagerly for the paper. When it came she waved
the sheet triumphantly over her head as she walked back from the
mailbox. Garrison was a hero. The authorities had run the New Englander
out of Baltimore. But it had been from the sparks he drew that the East
Baltimore Improvement Society had come into being. Anna sent their
copies to Baltimore after they had finished with them.</p>

<p>“E-man-ci-pa-tion,” Frederick stumbled over the long word. “What does
it mean, Anna?”</p>

<p>“Freedom, Frederick—or rather <i>setting</i> the people free. Listen
to this!” The two dark heads bent near the oil lamp. “‘The Constitution
of the United States knows nothing of white or black men; makes no
distinction with regard to the color or condition of free inhabitants.’”</p>

<p>Frederick learned to love the paper and its editor. Now he and Nathan
Johnson could really talk together. Nathan found an apt pupil, and Ma
Johnson took Anna under her wing.</p>

<p>As the days grew cooler folks began talking about Thanksgiving.</p>

<p>“What is it?” Anna asked, wrinkling her brow.</p>

<p>Then Ma Johnson told her about the Pilgrims, of their first, hard<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>
winter, of how now each year after harvest time the people of New
England set aside a special feasting day in their memory, a day when
they gave thanks for all the good things of the earth.</p>

<p>“What a beautiful idea!” Anna turned it over in her mind. “A day of
thanksgiving!”</p>

<p>“Those poor young ones never tasted turkey.” Ma conveyed this tragic
information to Nathan. They decided to take a turkey to them.</p>

<p>“And I’ll show her how to cook it.” Ma was very fond of Anna.</p>

<p>They carried the fresh-killed bird, resplendent in all its feathers, to
the little house. Frederick and Anna gazed upon it with awe.</p>

<p>“Hot water! Plenty of hot water!” Nathan rolled up his sleeves, and
while they followed his movements like two children he plucked the fowl
and handed it to Anna.</p>

<p>“We’ll have meat all winter!” Frederick laughed, his eyes on Anna’s
shining face.</p>

<p>The little house was fairly bursting with happiness that fall. They
were going to have a child—a child born on free soil.</p>

<p>“He’ll be a free man!” Frederick made the words a hymn of praise.</p>

<p>And Anna smiled.</p>

<p>In April William Lloyd Garrison came to New Bedford.</p>

<p>“You must go, Frederick,” Anna said, “since I can’t. Look at me!”</p>

<p>“Not without you.” The young husband shook his head, but Anna laughed
and rushed supper. Frederick was one of the first to arrive at the hall.</p>

<p>He saw only one face that night, he heard only one voice—a face which
he described as “heavenly,” a voice which he said “was never loud or
noisy, but calm and serene as a summer sky, and as pure.”</p>

<p>Garrison was a young man then, with a singularly pleasing face and an
earnest manner.</p>

<p>“The motto upon our banner has been, from the commencement of our
moral warfare, ‘Our country is the world—our countrymen are all
mankind.’ We trust it will be our only epitaph. Another motto we have
chosen is ‘Universal Emancipation.’ Up to this time we have limited
its application to those who are held in this country, by Southern
taskmasters, as marketable commodities, goods and chattels, and
implements of husbandry. Henceforth we shall use it in its widest
latitude: the emancipation of our whole race from the dominion of man,
from the thralldom of self, from the government of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> brute force, from
the bondage of sin—and bringing them under the dominion of God, the
control of an inward spirit, the government of the law of love, and
into the obedience and liberty of Christ, who is the same yesterday,
today, and forever.”</p>

<p>Frederick’s heart beat fast. He was breathing hard. The words came
faint; for inside he was shouting, “This man is Moses! Here is the
Moses who will lead my people out of bondage!” He wanted to throw
himself at this man’s feet. He wanted to help him.</p>

<p>Then they were singing—all the people in the hall were singing—and
Frederick slipped out. He ran all the way home. He could not walk.</p>

<p>Summer came. There was more work on the wharves, when his son was born.
Frederick laughed at obstacles. He’d show them! “Them” became the whole
world—the white caulkers who refused to work with him, anybody who
denied a place to his son because his skin was rosy brown! The young
father went into an oil refinery, and then into a brass foundry where
all through the next winter he worked two nights a week besides each
day. Hard work, night and day, over a furnace hot enough to keep the
metal running like water, might seem more favorable to action than
to thought, yet while he fanned the flames Frederick dreamed dreams,
saw pictures in the flames. He must get ready! He must learn more.
He nailed a newspaper to the post near his bellows and read while he
pushed the heavy beam up and down.</p>

<p>In the summer of 1841 the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society held its
grand convention in Nantucket. Frederick decided to take a day off from
work and attend a session.</p>

<p>The little freedom breeze was blowing up a gale. Theologians,
congressmen, governors and business men had hurled invectives, abuse
and legislation at the Anti-Slavery Society, at the <cite>Liberator</cite>
and at the paper’s editor, William Lloyd Garrison. But in London,
Garrison had refused to sit on the floor of the World Convention of
Anti-Slavery Societies because women delegates had been barred; and
now the very man who had founded the movement in America was being
execrated by many of those who professed to follow him.</p>

<p>But Frederick knew only that William Lloyd Garrison would be at
Nantucket.</p>

<p>The boat rounded Brant Point Light and came suddenly on a gray town
that rose out of the sea. Nantucket’s cobbled lanes, bright with
summer frocks, fanned up from the little bay where old whalers rested<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>
at anchor, slender masts of long sloops pointed to the sky, deep-sea
fishing boats sprawled on the dirty waters, and discolored warehouses
crowded down on the quays.</p>

<p>Frederick had no trouble finding his way to the big hall, for the
Abolitionist convention was the main event in the town. It spilled out
into the streets where groups of men stood in knots, talking excitedly.
Quakers, sitting inside their covered carriages, removed their hats and
talked quietly; and women, trying not to be conspicuous, stood under
shade trees, but they too talked.</p>

<p>The morning session had been stormy. A serious rift had developed
within the ranks of the antislavery movement. During his absence
Garrison had been attacked by a body of clergymen for what they termed
his “heresies”—the immediate charge being his “breaking of the
Sabbath.” Garrison, it seemed, saw no reason why anyone should “rest”
from abolishing slavery any day of the week. He maintained that all
days should be kept holy. He lacked forbearance and Christian patience,
they charged. He “aired America’s dirty linen” in Europe. He “insulted”
the English brethren when he took his stand for full recognition of
women in the World Anti-Slavery Convention, despite the fact that St.
Paul had adjured women to silence. Garrison had made a statement in the
<cite>Liberator</cite>: “I expressly declare that I stand upon the Bible, and
the Bible alone, in regard to my views of the Sabbath, the Church, and
the Ministry, and that I feel that if I can not stand triumphantly on
that foundation I can stand nowhere in the universe. My arguments are
all drawn from the Bible and from no other source.”<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p>

<p>For weeks the controversy had raged—sermons were preached, columns and
letters were written. Theodore Parker, young minister in Boston, was
denounced by his fellow-clergymen because he sided with Garrison. Now
they had all come to Nantucket—Garrisonites and anti-Garrisonites;
the issue of slavery was tabled while scholars drew nice lines in the
science of casuistry and ethics, and theologians chanted dogmas.</p>

<p>All morning Garrison sat silent. His right hand twitched nervously.
Pains shot up into his arm. His face was drawn and tired. His heart was
heavy. Here and there in the crowd a bewildered black face turned to
him. William Lloyd Garrison lowered his eyes and shut his teeth against
a groan that welled up from his heart.</p>

<p>And so he did not see one more dark figure push into the hall; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>
William C. Coffin, a Quaker and ardent Abolitionist, did. He had met
Frederick at the house of his friend, Nathan Johnson. Coffin made his
way back through the crowd and laid his hand on Frederick’s arm.</p>

<p>“Thee are well come, my friend,” he said.</p>

<p>Frederick had been peering anxiously toward the platform. He was so
far back, the crowd was so thick and the people wedged in so tightly,
that he despaired of hearing or seeing anything; but he smiled a warm
greeting at the Quaker.</p>

<p>“Follow me, there are seats up front,” Friend Coffin was saying.</p>

<p>The older man led the way down a side aisle, and there close against
the wall was a little space. Frederick gratefully slipped in beside his
friend.</p>

<p>“This is fine,” he whispered, “I hated to miss anything.” He looked
around at the other occupants of the side seats. He spoke worriedly.
“But—But I don’t belong up here.”</p>

<p>The Quaker smiled. “This is thy place.” He leaned closer, and his eyes
were very earnest. “Douglass, I am asking thee to speak a few words to
the convention this afternoon.”</p>

<p>Frederick stared at him. He gasped.</p>

<p>“Me? Speak?”</p>

<p>The great hall was a vast arena packed with all the people in the
world! Surely the Quaker was joking. But no, the voice was very low,
but calm and sure.</p>

<p>“Tell them thy story, Douglass, as thee have told the men at the mill.
Just tell them the truth—no matter how the words come.” Frederick
shook his head helplessly. He couldn’t stand up there before all those
people. He tried to hear what the man on the platform was saying, but
the words were meaningless. The hall was stifling hot. Men were mopping
their brows with damp handkerchiefs. Frederick opened his shirt at the
neck and let his coat slip off his shoulders.</p>

<p>“Thee cannot escape thy duty, Douglass,” Mr. Coffin urged quietly.
“Look about you! Today, thy people need thee to speak for them.”
Frederick held his breath, and the Quaker added gravely, “And <i>he</i>
needs thee—that good man who has worked so hard needs thy help.”</p>

<p>Frederick followed the Quaker’s eyes. He was gazing at William Lloyd
Garrison, the man whom he honored and loved above all other men. How
sunken and tired he looked!</p>

<p>“He needs thee,” the Quaker said again.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p>

<p>Frederick’s lips formed the words, though no sound came at first.</p>

<p>“I’ll try,” he whispered.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>How long it was after this that Frederick found himself on his feet,
being gently pushed toward the platform, he could not have said. Only
when he was standing up there before all those people did he realize
that he had not replaced his coat. It was a clean shirt, fresh from
Anna’s tub and iron, but—! He fumbled with the button at his neck. His
fingers were stiff and clumsy. He could not button it with the faces, a
sea of faces, looking up at him, waiting. Everything was so still. They
were waiting for him. He swallowed.</p>

<p>“Ladies and gentlemen—” a little girl, all big grave eyes, pushed her
damped curls back and smiled at him, encouraging. Suddenly a mighty
wave of realization lifted and supported him. These people were glad
that he was free. They wanted him to be free! He began again.</p>

<p>“Friends, only a few short months ago I was a slave. Now I am free!” He
saw them sway toward him. “I cannot tell you how I escaped because if
known those who helped me would suffer terribly, <i>terribly</i>.” He
said the word a second time and saw some realization of what he meant
reflected in their faces.</p>

<p>“I do not ask anything for myself. I have my hands to work—my
strength.... All of the seas could not hold my thanksgiving to Almighty
God—and to you.” He was silent a moment and they saw his eyes grow
darker; his face contracted as if in pain. When he began again, his
voice trembled, they had to lean forward to catch his words.</p>

<p>“But I am only one. Where are my brothers? Where are my sisters? Their
groans sound in my ears. Their voices cry out to me for help. My
mother—my own mother—where is she? I hope she is dead. I hope that
she has found the only peace that comes to a slave—that last, last
peace in a grave. But even as I stand before you it may be—It may be
that—” He stopped and covered his face with his hands. When he lifted
his head, his eyes shone with resolution. “Hear me,” he said, “hear me
while I tell you about slavery.”</p>

<p>And then, in a clear voice, he told them of Caroline, why she dragged
her leg, and how she had risked her life to save him; he told them
about Henry and John, Nada and Jeb. He told them of little children he
had seen clinging to their mother as she was being sold away, of men
and women whose “spirits” had to be broken, of degradation. He told
them the content of human slavery.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p>

<p>“I am free,” his voice went low; but they leaned forward, hanging on
every word. “But I am branded with the marks of the lash. See!” And
with one movement, he threw back his shirt. He turned, and there across
the broad, young back were deep knotty ridges, where the brown flesh
had been cut to the bone and healed in pink lumps. They gasped.</p>

<p>“I have not forgotten—I do not forget anything. Nor will I forget
while, any place upon this earth, there are slaves.”</p>

<p>He turned to leave the platform.</p>

<p>Then in the silence another voice, a golden voice, was heard. It was as
if a trumpet called.</p>

<p>“Is this a thing—a chattel—or a man?”</p>

<p>William Lloyd Garrison stood there—his eyes flaming—his face alight.
He waited for an answer, holding Frederick’s hand in his, facing the
audience. And from a thousand voices rose the shout.</p>

<p>“He is a man!”</p>

<p>“A man! A man!”</p>

<p>Garrison let the tumultuous shouts roll and reverberate. Men wept
unashamed. Far down the street people heard the applause and shouting
and came running. Through it all Garrison stood, holding the strong
brown hand in his. At last Garrison pressed the hand gently, and
Frederick stumbled to his seat. Then Garrison stepped to the edge of
the platform.</p>

<p>Those who had heard him oftenest and known him longest were astonished
by his speech that afternoon. He was the fabulous orator who could
convert a vast audience into a single individuality.</p>

<p>“And to this cause we solemnly dedicate our strength, our minds, our
spirits and our lives!”</p>

<p>As long as they lived men and women talked about that August afternoon
on Nantucket Island.</p>

<p>John A. Collins, general agent of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery
Society, was at Frederick’s elbow when the meeting let out.</p>

<p>“We want you as an agent,” he was saying. “Come, Mr. Garrison told me
to bring you to him.”</p>

<p>While the crowd surged about them, the great man once more held
Frederick’s hand, but now he gazed searchingly at the brown face.</p>

<p>“Will you join us, Frederick Douglass?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Oh, sir, I am a member of the Society in New Bedford,” Frederick
answered quickly and proudly. Garrison smiled.</p>

<p>“Of course. But I mean more than that—a lot more. I’m asking<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>
you to leave whatever job you have and work with me. The pay
is—well—uncertain. They tell me you have a family. I too have a
family.”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir. I know,” Frederick said, his eyes like an adoring child’s.</p>

<p>“I am asking you to leave your own family and work for the larger
family of God.”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir, I understand. I want to help. But I am ignorant. I was
planning to go to school.”</p>

<p>“You will learn as you walk, Frederick Douglass. Your people need your
strength now. We all need you.”</p>

<p>So Frederick left his job at the foundry and, as an agent of the
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society, began active work to outlaw slavery
in the nation.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Seven"><span class="smcap">Chapter Seven</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Jobs in Washington and voting in Rhode Island</i><br>
</p>


<p>Amelia Kemp stood at her attic window. The waters of Chesapeake Bay
tossed green and white and set the thick mass of trees on distant
Poplar Island in motion. A boat rounded Keat Point. For a few moments
Amelia could see the tips of the masts and a bit of white sail against
the sky. Then it all disappeared. But the sight of a boat sailing away
over the waters, of a ship going out to sea, was not at this moment
depressing. She too was going away.</p>

<p>Lucy was dead. That morning they had laid her worn body in a grave at
the edge of the pines. Covey, his Sunday suit sagging, stared stupidly
while they shoveled in the hard lumps of clay. The preacher had wrung
the widower’s hand, reminding him that “The Lord giveth and the Lord
taketh away”; and they had returned to the unpainted, sagging house.
Now there was nothing further to do. She could go.</p>

<p>Amelia had tried to persuade her sister to leave with her before it was
too late. She had dared to read her portions of Jack’s letters—“Come
along, there are jobs in Washington—even for women.” But Lucy would
have none of it. Her duty was clear. There were moments when she urged
Amelia to go, others when she clung to her weakly. So the months had
stretched into six years, and Amelia had stayed on.</p>

<p>Covey dropped into a chair on the front porch when they returned from
the grave. All the lines of his body ran downward. Covey had not
prospered. He knew nothing about a nationwide depression, Van Buren’s
bickering with the banks, wars in Texas, or gag rules in Congress; he
had no idea there was any connection between the 1840 presidential
election and the price of cotton. He did know he was losing ground.
No matter how hard he beat the slaves, crops failed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> or rotted in the
fields, stock died, debts piled up, markets slumped and tempers were
short all around the bay.</p>

<p>Now, his wife was dead—<i>hadn’t been really sick, either. Just,
petered out.</i> Here it was April, and the sun was scorching.</p>

<p>He had heard no sound, but Covey was suddenly aware of being watched.
He sat very still and stared hard into the bushes near the corner of
the porch. Two hard, bright eyes stared back. Covey spoke sharply.</p>

<p>“Who’s that? Who’s that sneakin’ in them bushes?”</p>

<p>The eyes vanished, but the bushes did not stir. With a snarl, Covey
leaned forward.</p>

<p>“Dammit! I’ll git my shotgun!”</p>

<p>The leaves parted and he saw the streaked, pallid, pinched face
in which the green eyes blazed—a face topped with dirty, tangled
tow-colored hair. It was an old face; but the slight body with
pipe-stem legs and arms was that of a child, a girl-child not more
than ten years old. She wore a coarse one-piece slip. One bare foot
was wrapped as if to protect some injury, the other was scratched
and bruised. The child did not come forward, but crouched beside the
porch giving back stare for hard stare. Then with a little cry she
disappeared around the house.</p>

<p>Covey spat over the porch rail and settled back. It was that brat of
Caroline’s of course, still running about like a wild animal. Time she
was helping around the house. He began to deliberate. Might be better
to get rid of her right off. She’d soon be market size, and yellow
gals brought good prices. He’d speak to Caroline about feeding her up.
Better bring her in the house. Mustn’t let Caroline suspect anything,
though.</p>

<p>He pulled himself up and turned to go inside. Maybe Caroline had
something for him to eat.</p>

<p>Amelia stopped him in the hallway. She was wearing a hat and carrying a
suitcase. Covey frowned.</p>

<p>“Oh, Mr. Covey! I was looking for you.” Her voice had a note of urgency.</p>

<p>Amelia had a way of emerging from the nondescript background with
startling vividness. Months passed when he hardly saw her. Then there
she was jumping out at him! What the devil did she want now? He waited
for her to explain.</p>

<p>“I’m going away.”</p>

<p>Just like that. No stumbling around the words. Covey let his flat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> eyes
travel over her. Not a bad-looking woman, Amelia. More spirit than her
sister. He spoke slowly.</p>

<p>“I ain’t putting you out.”</p>

<p>Amelia’s response sounded grateful enough. “Oh, I know, Mr. Covey. It’s
not that. But now that poor Lucy’s gone, I’ve no right to—to impose.”</p>

<p>Covey remembered that he <i>had</i> been keeping a roof over her head
all these years. And what had he got out of it? Nothing. His eyes
narrowed.</p>

<p>“Where you aiming to go?”</p>

<p>“I’m going to Washington. A cousin of Tom’s down there—his name’s Jack
Haley—says I can get a—a job.”</p>

<p>Her words had started in a rush, but they faltered a little by the time
she reached her incredible conclusion.</p>

<p><i>A job in Washington!</i> Was the female crazy? In a surge of
masculine protectiveness, Covey glowered at her.</p>

<p>“Who said you had to get out and get a job? Eh? Who said so?”</p>

<p>Amelia swallowed. She had not expected an argument. She did not intend
to argue. She had to be getting along. She would miss her boat. She
spoke firmly.</p>

<p>“Mr. Covey, it’s all settled. I’m going. Ben told me you were sending
him to town this afternoon. I want to ride with him.”</p>

<p>Covey spoke deliberately. “The nigger’s lyin’—as usual. He better not
go off the place this afternoon. An’ you best get those fool notions
out of your head. You can stay right here and look after the house. I
ain’t kickin’.” He strode into the kitchen. That took care of that.
It was close to ten miles to St. Michaels. She’d have time to think
it over. But who was this fellow in Washington—a cousin of her late
husband, so she said. Um-um! Yes, Amelia had more spirit than poor Lucy.</p>

<p>Amelia, left standing in the hall, sighed and set down her bag. <i>A
pretty kettle of fish!</i> Did Covey think he could hold her? Was she
one of his slaves? Then in a flash of realization she saw the truth.
She was indeed a slave—had been for all these years. And she was
running away—just as much as those black slaves she read about.</p>

<p>Amelia picked up her suitcase, walked out onto the porch, down the
steps, along the path, out to the road. She looked down the long dusty
road to St. Michaels, and started walking.</p>

<p>It was nearly two miles to Lawson’s place, and when she reached the
welcome shade of his grove she sank down to rest. Not too bad:<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> she was
making time. She rubbed her benumbed arm and wondered if there weren’t
something in the bag she could dump out. She was going to have blisters
on her feet. Soon, now, she’d reach the highway. If she did not get a
ride, she would miss the boat.</p>

<p>When she set out again, she stumbled and cut her foot against a hidden
stone. There was no time to do anything about it, however, so she
plodded along, fixing her mind firmly on the Washington boat.</p>

<p>Thus she did not hear the cart until it was close behind her. Then she
stopped, her legs trembling. The mule stopped without any sign from the
Negro driver.</p>

<p>It was not the same mule, driven by the old Negro who had passed Amelia
one morning more than six years before. There were so many mules being
driven by so many Negroes up and down the Eastern Shore. This Negro
was younger and he could see quite clearly. And what he saw puzzled and
disturbed him—a white woman, alone on a side road, carrying a suitcase
and giving every sign of being about to ask him for a lift!</p>

<p><i>Not good.</i> He sat, a solid cloud of gloom, waiting for her to
speak.</p>

<p>Amelia smiled. She had to clear her throat. The mule regarded her
stolidly.</p>

<p>“Boy,” she asked, and the tone of her voice confirmed his worse fears,
“are you going into St. Michaels?”</p>

<p>“No, <i>ma’m</i>. Jus’ up da road a piece, an’ right back. No, ma’m, Ah
ain’t goin’ neah St. Michael. No, <i>ma’m</i>.”</p>

<p>He was too vehement. Amelia saw the confusion in his face and, because
she was in the process of acquiring wisdom, she knew the cause. She
must think of a way to reassure him. She spoke slowly.</p>

<p>“You see, I’m trying to get to St. Michaels. I want to catch a boat.”</p>

<p>Amelia saw the man’s eyes flicker. Going somewhere always aroused
interest. He shook his head, but did not speak. Amelia looked away. The
road seemed to quiver in the sun.</p>

<p>“You see, I’m starting on a journey.” Now she looked full at him—she
looked at him as one looks at a friend and she said softly, “I’m
heading toward the north star.”</p>

<p>Perhaps the man’s hands tightened on the reins. At any rate the mule
jerked up his head. The black face froze. For one instant everything
stood still. Then the Negro looked up and down the road and to the
right and to the left. There were only dust and fields, and here and
there a tree.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span></p>

<p>He climbed down from the cart and picked up her bag. He spoke without
looking at her.</p>

<p>“Jus’ remembered, ma’m, Ah might could drive toward St. Michael. Jus’
<i>might</i> could.”</p>

<p>“Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!” The warmth in her tone forced a
smile from him.</p>

<p>“Reckon Ah could fix up a seat for you in back.”</p>

<p>He did fix a seat, shoving aside sacks and cords of wood. It was not an
upholstered carriage, but it got her to St. Michaels. She alighted at
the market, to arouse less attention. But he insisted on carrying her
bag to the pier.</p>

<p>“Ma’m,” he said, turning his hat in his hands, “hit seem mighty funny,
but Ah—Ah wishes yo’ luck!”</p>

<p>And Amelia, eyes shining, answered, “Thank you—Thank you, my friend.
The same to you!”</p>

<p>The slave leaned lazily against a pile until the gangplank was pulled
up, his eyes under the flopping straw hat darting in every direction,
watching. Then, as the space of dirty water widened and the boat became
a living thing, he stood up, waved his hat in the air and, after wiping
the beads of sweat from his forehead, spoke fervently.</p>

<p>“Do Jesus!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Washington, D. C. had become a tough problem to the Boston
Abolitionists. A group was meeting one evening in the <cite>Liberator</cite>
office to map out some course of action.</p>

<p>“Every road barred to us! Our papers not even delivered in the mail!”
Parker Pillsbury tossed his head angrily.</p>

<p>“Washington is a slave city. Thee must accept facts.” The Quaker,
William Coffin, spoke in conciliatory tones.</p>

<p>“But it’s our Capital, too—a city of several thousand inhabitants—and
the slaveholders build high walls around it.” The Reverend Wendell
Phillips was impatient.</p>

<p>“We should hold a meeting in Washington!” William Lloyd Garrison
sighed, thinking of all the uninformed people in that city.</p>

<p>His remark was followed by a heavy silence. An Abolitionist meeting in
Washington was out of the question. Several Southern states had already
put a price on Garrison’s head. Frederick, sitting in the shadows,
studied the glum faces and realized that, in one way or another, every
man in the room was marked. They were agents of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> Anti-Slavery
Society and they, no more than he, could go South. Washington was
South. Then from near the door came a drawling voice.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen, trouble your heads no longer. I’m going home.” A slender
man was coming forward into the lamplight.</p>

<p>At the sound of the soft drawl, Frederick froze. He crouched low,
hiding his face. But no alarm was sounded. There was welcome in
Garrison’s low greeting: “Gamaliel Bailey!”</p>

<p>The first voice answered, “I heard only enough to agree fully. We
do need a spokesman in Washington. I would not flatter myself,
gentlemen—but I am ready.”</p>

<p>Garrison spoke with unaccustomed vehemence.</p>

<p>“No! We need you here.”</p>

<p>Frederick slowly lifted his head. The man was a stranger to him. His
speech proclaimed him a Southerner. Now Frederick saw an attractive,
dark-haired gentleman in black broadcloth and loosely fitted gray
trousers. He looked down at Garrison, his black eyes bright.</p>

<p>“This is the job that I alone can do,” he said.</p>

<p>Wendell Phillips’ golden voice was warm as he nodded his head.</p>

<p>“He’s right. Garrison. Gamaliel Bailey can go to Washington. He
belongs.”</p>

<p>“Captain John Smith, himself,” Pillsbury teased, but with affection.</p>

<p>“At your service, sir.” The Southerner swept him a low bow.</p>

<p>“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Bailey,” a stern voice interposed.
“They know you have worked with us. You are a known Abolitionist!”</p>

<p>Gamaliel Bailey flicked a bit of non-existent dust from his waistcoat,
and gave a soft laugh.</p>

<p>“Once a Virginia Bailey, always a Virginia Bailey! Have no fear, Mr.
Hunton,” he said. He caught sight of Frederick’s dark face lifting
itself among them. His eyes lit up. “This must be the new agent of whom
I’ve been hearing.”</p>

<p>“Yes,” several said at once. “It’s Frederick Douglass.”</p>

<p>Their handclasp was a promise. “I go to Washington now, so that you can
come later,” said the Virginian.</p>

<p>“And I’ll be along!” promised Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>William Lloyd Garrison did not smile. His face was clouded with
apprehension. “You’ll need help,” he said.</p>

<p>“It is best that I find my help in Washington. I know one young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> man
whom I can count on. Jack Haley. He’ll bring me all the news. You know,
I think I’ll publish a paper!” He grinned. “Since they won’t let the
<cite>Liberator</cite> in, we’ll see if I can’t get a paper out.”</p>

<p>So it happened that Jack Haley was not on the dock to meet Amelia’s
boat from St. Michaels. The weekly issue of the <cite>National Era</cite>
had hit the streets the day before, and scattered like a bomb all up
and down Pennsylvania Avenue. In Congress, on the streets and in the
clubs they raged! Here was heresy of the most dangerous order, printed
and distributed within a stone’s throw of the Capitol. It was enough
to make God-fearing Americans shudder when the son of such an old and
respected family as the Virginia Baileys flaunted the mongrel elements
in their faces. They did shudder, some of them. And grinning reporters
ran from one caucus to the other.</p>

<p>Jack was much younger than his cousin Tom. He remembered Tom’s wife
with affection. Her letters had intrigued him, and he was glad she was
coming to Washington.</p>

<p>He found her down on the wharf, surrounded by bales of cotton, serenely
rocking in a highback New England rocker!</p>

<p>Amelia saw him staring at her and with a little cry of joy she sprang
up.</p>

<p>“Jack, I knew you’d get here! I wasn’t worrying a bit. And kind Captain
Drayton has made me quite comfortable.”</p>

<p>The weather-beaten Vermonter, leaning against the rail of his ship,
regarded the late arrival and scowled until his thick eyebrows
threatened to tangle with his heavy beard.</p>

<p>“Nice way to treat a female!” he boomed.</p>

<p>Jack held her hands in his. She was so thin, so little. The gray
strands smoothed carefully behind her ears accentuated the hollows in
her face; the cotton dress she wore was washed out, but the blue eyes
looking up at him were young and bright.</p>

<p>Amelia exclaimed over the little buggy Jack had waiting. He helped her
in, tucked the bag under their feet and flapped the reins.</p>

<p>Washington in the spring! Heavy wagon wheels bogged down in deep ruts,
and hogs wallowed in the mud; but a soft green haze lay over the
sprawling town and wrapped it in loveliness. They were rolling along a
wide street, and Amelia was trying to see everything at once. Then she
saw the Capitol lifting its glistening dome against the wide blue sky,
and she caught her breath.</p>

<p>They circled the Capitol grounds, turned down a shaded lane and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span>
stopped before a two-story brick house which sat well back in a yard
with four great elms.</p>

<p>“Here we are!” Jack smiled down at her.</p>

<p>“How nice! Is this where you live?”</p>

<p>“No, ma’am. This is where, I hope, you’re going to live.”</p>

<p>“But who—?” began Amelia.</p>

<p>“Just you wait.” Jack jumped out and hitched the reins around a post.
The big trees up and down the street formed an avenue of coolness.
Amelia hesitated when he turned to assist her.</p>

<p>“Are they—Are they expecting me?”</p>

<p>Jack chuckled.</p>

<p>“Mrs. Royall, my dear, is expecting anything—at any time!”</p>

<p>“Jack! You don’t mean Mrs. Royall—the authoress!” Amelia hung
motionless over the wheel. Jack grasped her firmly by the elbow.</p>

<p>“Who else? There is only one Mrs. Royall. There’s Her Highness now,
back in the chicken yard. Come along. I’ll fetch the bag later.”</p>

<p>Amelia shook out her skirts and followed him along the path that led
around the house.</p>

<p>The little old lady bending over a chicken coop from which spilled
yellow puffs of baby chicks, might have been somebody’s indulgent
grandmother. The calico dress drawn in around a shapeless middle
was faded; so was the bonnet from which escaped several strands of
iron-gray hair.</p>

<p>“Good afternoon, Mrs. Royall!” There was warm deference in Jack’s voice.</p>

<p>She stood up and her shoulders squared. There was a certain
sprightliness in the movement, and in the tanned, unwrinkled face
gleamed eyes of a remarkable brightness. When she spoke her voice had
an unexpected crispness.</p>

<p>“Indeed—it’s Jack Haley. And who is this female with you?”</p>

<p>“This is a kinswoman of mine, Mrs. Royall. I have the pleasure of
presenting to you, Mrs. Amelia Kemp.”</p>

<p>“How do ye do!” The little old lady spoke with prim formality, her eyes
flashing briefly over Amelia.</p>

<p>“I am honored, ma’am.” Amelia scarcely managed the words.</p>

<p>“She has come to Washington to work,” Jack went on. “So I have brought
her to you.”</p>

<p>The gray eyes snapped.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p>

<p>“And why should you bring your kinswoman to me?”</p>

<p>“Because, Mrs. Royall, it’s newspapers she wants to know about. And
you’re the best newsman in Washington, begging your pardon, ma’am.” He
bowed elaborately.</p>

<p>“You needn’t!” She turned to Amelia.</p>

<p>“I’ve read one of your books, ma’am. Jack sent it to me. I learned so
much about America.”</p>

<p>Undoubtedly the gray eyes softened, but the tone did not change.</p>

<p>“Why don’t you take her to your friend on the avenue—that infamous
Abolitionist?”</p>

<p>“Mrs. Royall!” Jack’s voice was charged with shock. “You couldn’t be
speaking about Editor Gamaliel Bailey?”</p>

<p>“He should be ashamed of himself. Selling out to those long-winded
black coats!”</p>

<p>“But, Mrs. Royall—”</p>

<p>“Don’t interrupt. If he’d come to me I’d tell him how to get rid
of slavery. It’s a curse on the land. But those psalm-singing
missionaries—Bah!”</p>

<p>“May I remind you, Mrs. Royall,” Jack spoke very softly, “that when you
came back from Boston you spoke very highly of the Reverend Theodore
Parker. And he’s a—”</p>

<p>“He’s <i>not</i> a black coat.” The lady spoke with feeling. Her face
cleared and she added sweetly, “He must be a Unitarian.” Then she
laughed, all shadows and restraint gone. “Forgive an old windbag,
guilty of the very faults she criticizes in others.” She lifted her
eyes. “See how the sun shines on our Capitol. Have you ever seen
anything half so beautiful?”</p>

<p>Amelia shook her head.</p>

<p>“I’ve never traveled any place before, ma’am. Washington is more than I
can believe.”</p>

<p>“It’s too good for the people who live here. But come and rest
yourself. I am a bad hostess.” Her eyes twinkled as she turned to Jack.
“First, does she know I’m a criminal—a convicted criminal?” She made
it sound very mysterious, and Amelia stared.</p>

<p>Jack laughed. “You tell her, Mrs. Royall!”</p>

<p>“’Tis very sad.” There was mockery in her voice. “A ‘common
scold’—that was the finding of the jury. In England they would have
ducked me in a pond; but here there was only the Potomac, and the
honored judge deemed that might not be right—the waters would be
contaminated. So they let me go.” They were in the house now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> and she
was setting out china cups. “You know,” she frowned slightly, “the
thing I really objected to was the word ‘common.’ That I did not like.”</p>

<p>“I agree with you, madam. Mrs. Royall’s scoldings of senators,
congressmen and even presidents, of bankers and bishops, have always
been in a class by themselves. ‘Common’ was not the word.” And again he
bowed.</p>

<p>The old lady eyed him with approval.</p>

<p>“Where, might I ask, did you get your good manners? They are rare
enough in Washington these days.” Before he could reply she had turned
to Amelia—the gracious host to her guest. “Some day, my dear, I shall
tell you of the Marquis de la Fayette. Ah! there were manners!”</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr">Liberté, fraternité, égalité!</i>” Jack murmured the words half
under his breath, but the old lady turned on him, her eyes flashing.
Then, like an imp, she grinned.</p>

<p>So Amelia came to live with Anne Royall, long-time relict of Captain
William Royall. He had fought beside Washington in the Revolutionary
War and had been the General’s lifelong friend. In her own way she
waged a war too. Each week she cranked a clumsy printing press in
her shed and turned out a pithy paper called the <cite>Huntress</cite>. It
advocated free schools for children everywhere, free trade, and liberal
appropriations for scientific investigation. Amelia helped her about
the house and with her chickens, accompanied her on interviews, saw
red-faced legislators dodge down side-streets to avoid her. Gradually
she learned something of how news is gathered and dispensed, but she
learned more about the ways of Washington, D. C.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Amelia had been in Washington three weeks when one evening Jack stopped
by.</p>

<p>“I’m going up North!” he announced.</p>

<p>“Where? What for?”</p>

<p>“The boss heard something about a rebellion in New England. He’s
tickled pink. Said maybe that would keep Yankee noses out of other
people’s worries. He’s sending me out to puff the scandal!”</p>

<p>“Do you know anything about it?” Mrs. Royall’s ears were alert.</p>

<p>“From what I can gather, seems a lot of poor folks in Rhode Island want
to vote. And the bigwigs don’t like it!”</p>

<p>All of New England had become involved. Two state administrations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>
were claiming the election in Rhode Island, and a clash was imminent.
Until 1841 Rhode Island had operated under its colonial charter, which
prohibited anyone from voting who did not own 134 acres of land.
Therefore, seats in the state legislature were controlled by the older
conservative villages, while the growing industrial towns, where the
larger portion of the population was disfranchised, were penalized.
That year Thomas Wilson Dorr, a Whig and graduate of Harvard, started a
reform movement; and a new constitution was drawn up. This constitution
was framed to enlarge the basis of representation and abolish the
odious property requirement. But it confined the right of suffrage to
white male citizens, pointedly shutting out the Negroes who had settled
in Rhode Island.</p>

<p>Quakers were non-resistance men; they held themselves aloof from
politics, but they were always on the alert to protect the black man’s
rights. All antislavery advocates wanted a new constitution, but they
did not want a defective instrument which would require reform from
the start. So they could not back Dorr. The Perry brothers, Providence
manufacturers, wrote to their friend, John Brown, a wool merchant in
Springfield, Massachusetts.</p>

<p>“The time has come when the people of Rhode Island must accept a more
comprehensive gospel of human rights than has gotten itself into this
Dorr constitution. We have talked to him, and while he agrees in
principle he fears to go further.”</p>

<p>John Brown sent the letter on to John Greenleaf Whittier, Secretary of
the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. Whittier talked it over with
the Reverend Theodore Parker, who was considering making a series of
speeches in Rhode Island, denouncing the color bar in what was being
called a “People’s Constitution.”</p>

<p>“Why should not Negroes vote with all the other workers?” asked
Whittier. “They would limit their gains in throwing out the old
charter.”</p>

<p>Theodore Parker sighed wearily.</p>

<p>“It’s the workers who are doing this. Their own struggle has blinded
them.”</p>

<p>“Thee are right.” Whittier slipped into the Quaker idiom in moments of
great seriousness. “They see the black man only as a threat.”</p>

<p>Then their eyes met, fusing in a single thought. They spoke almost in
one breath.</p>

<p>“Frederick Douglass!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span></p>

<p>For a moment they smiled together, congratulating themselves. Then a
frown came on Whittier’s face. He shook his head.</p>

<p>“But Friend Garrison will not consent. Thee knows his attitude toward
any of us taking part in politics.”</p>

<p>Theodore Parker was silent a moment, drumming his long, white fingers
on the table. Then his black eyes flashed.</p>

<p>“Are we discussing politics? We are concerned here with the rights of
men.”</p>

<p>Whittier shook his head, but he grinned.</p>

<p>“Thee had best take care! Quoting Thomas Paine will not help.”</p>

<p>“Fiddlesticks! Tom Paine had more religion than all the clerics of
Massachusetts rolled into one.” The young divine got to his feet, his
thin face alight with enthusiasm. “Douglass goes to Rhode Island! I’ll
take care of Garrison.”</p>

<p>It was decided, and Douglass was one of the Abolitionists’ trio which
invaded every town and corner of the little state. They were Stephen S.
Foster of New Hampshire, Parker Pillsbury from Boston, and Frederick
Douglass from some unspecified section of the slave world—two white
and one black—young and strong and on fire with their purpose. The
splendid vehemence of Foster, the weird and terrible denunciations
of Pillsbury, and the mere presence of Douglass created a furor from
one end of the state to the other. They were followed by noisy mobs,
they were thrown out of taverns, they were pelted with eggs and rocks
and foul words. But they kept right on talking—in schoolhouses and
churches and halls, in market places, in warehouses, behind factories
and on docks. Sometimes they were accompanied by Abby Kelly, who was
later to become Stephen Foster’s wife. Her youth and simple Quaker
beauty, combined with her wonderful earnestness, her large knowledge
and great logical power, bore down opposition. She stilled the wildest
turmoil.</p>

<p>The people began to listen. They drew up a Freeman’s Constitution to
challenge Thomas Dorr’s and called a huge mass meeting in Providence.
On streamers and handbills distributed throughout the state, they
listed “Frederick Douglass, Fugitive from Slavery,” as the principal
speaker.</p>

<p>Jack Haley saw the streamers when he reached Providence late in the
evening. He heard talk of the meeting around the hostelry while he
gulped down his supper. When he reached the crowded hall things were
already under way. There was some confusion as he was pushing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> his way
in. Someone on the floor seemed to be demanding the right to speak.</p>

<p>“It’s Seth Luther!” whispered excited bystanders. “Thomas Dorr’s
right-hand man.”</p>

<p>“Go on, Seth, have your say!” called out a loud voice in the crowd.</p>

<p>The young man on the platform motioned for silence. He nodded to the
man standing in the aisle.</p>

<p>“Speak, my friend!” he said.</p>

<p>The man’s voice was harsh.</p>

<p>“You philanthropists are moaning over the fate of Southern slaves.
Go down there and help them! We here are concerned with equal rights
for men, with the emancipation of white men, before we run out after
helping blacks whether they are free or in slavery. You’re meddling
with what doesn’t concern you!”</p>

<p>There was some applause. There were boos and hisses, but the man sat
down amid a murmur of approval from those near him.</p>

<p>Then Jack saw that the chairman on the platform had stepped aside and
his place had been taken by an impressive figure. Even before he said
a word the vast audience settled into silence. For undoubtedly this
was the “fugitive slave” they had come to hear. Jack stared: this man
did not look as if he had ever been a slave. The massive shoulders,
straight and shapely body, great head with bushy mane sweeping back
from wide forehead, deep-set eyes and jutting jaw covered with full
beard—the poise and controlled strength in every line—called forth a
smothered exclamation from Jack.</p>

<p>“My God! What a human being!”</p>

<p>“Ssh-sh!” several people hissed. Frederick Douglass was speaking.</p>

<p>“The gentleman would have us argue more and denounce less. He speaks
of men and black and slaves as if our cause can differ from his own.
What is our concern except with equal rights for men? And must we argue
to affirm the equal manhood of the Negro race? Is it not astonishing
that, while we are plowing, planting, and reaping, using all kinds
of mechanical tools, erecting houses, constructing bridges, building
ships, working in metals of brass, iron, copper, silver and gold;
that, while we are reading, writing and ciphering, acting as clerks
and secretaries, digging gold in California, capturing the whale in
the Pacific, feeding sheep and cattle on the hillside, living, moving,
acting, thinking, planning, living in families as husbands, wives and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span>
children, and, above all, confessing and worshiping the Christian’s
God, we are called upon to prove that we are men!</p>

<p>“I tell you the slaveholders in the darkest jungles of the Southland
concede this fact. They acknowledge it in the enactment of laws for
their government; they acknowledge it when they punish disobedience on
the part of the slave. There are seventy-two crimes in the state of
Virginia which, if committed by a black man (no matter how ignorant
he be) subject him to punishment by death; while only two of the
same crimes will subject a white man to the like punishment. What is
this but the acknowledgment that the slave is a moral, intellectual,
and responsible being? It is admitted in fact that Southern statute
books are covered with enactments forbidding, under severe fines and
penalties, the teaching of the slave to read or to write. When you can
point to any such laws in reference to the beasts of the field, than I
may consent to argue the manhood of the black man.”</p>

<p>Men stamped and shouted and threw their hats into the air. The hall
rang. Douglass took up in a quieter mood. He talked of the meaning
of constitutional government, he talked of what could be gained if
exploited people stood together and what they lost by battling among
themselves.</p>

<p>“The slaveholders, with a craftiness peculiar to themselves, encourage
enmity of the poor labouring white man against the blacks, and succeed
in making the white man almost as much a slave as the black slave
himself. The difference is this: the latter belongs to one slaveholder,
the former belongs to the slaveholders collectively. Both are
plundered, and by the same plunderers.”</p>

<p>Afterward Jack tried to go forward and ask some questions of the
amazing orator, but the press of the crowd stopped him. He gave up and
returned to the inn. And the next day they had gone back to Boston, he
was told. Thomas Dorr, through his timidity and caution, had lost the
people.</p>

<p>When the new Rhode Island constitution was finally adopted the word
<i>white</i> had been struck out.</p>

<p>Jack Haley returned to Washington and handed in his account of the
“rebellion.” The editor blue-penciled most of it. He said they had
thrown away money on a wild-goose chase.</p>

<p>But Gamaliel Bailey studied the closely written pages Jack laid on his
desk. True, he could not now publish the material in his <cite>National
Era</cite>; but he drew a circle around the name “Frederick Douglass” and
slipped the sheets into his file for future reference.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p>

<p>Every drop of blood slowly drained from Amelia’s face while
Jack talked. Mrs. Royall dropped the stick of type she had been
clutching—Jack had interrupted them at work in the shed—and stared at
her helper.</p>

<p>“She’s sick!”</p>

<p>But Amelia shook her head. She leaned against the board, struggling to
speak while into her white face there came a glow which changed her
blue eyes into dancing stars.</p>

<p>“You said his name was Frederick, didn’t you? About how old would you
say he was?”</p>

<p>“What?” asked Mrs. Royall.</p>

<p>“<i>How old?</i>” asked Jack.</p>

<p>“Yes.” Amelia was a little impatient. “The one you’re talking
about—that slave who spoke. I’m sure I know who he is!”</p>

<p>“Oh, my goodness, Amelia! That’s impossible!” The idea made Jack frown.
Mrs. Royall snorted.</p>

<p>“Describe him to me, Jack,” Amelia insisted, “every detail.”</p>

<p>She kept nodding her head while Jack rather grudgingly complied with
her request. It seemed such a waste of time. He shook his head as he
finished.</p>

<p>“There couldn’t possibly have been such an extraordinary slave around
any place where you’ve been. All of us would have heard of him!”</p>

<p>Amelia smiled.</p>

<p>“I remember how he came walking up the road that day in a swirl of
dust. He was little more than a boy then. Now he’s a man. It is the
same.”</p>

<p>Then she told how that morning at dawn she had leaned from her attic
window and watched a young buck slave defy a slave-breaker, how he had
sent the overseer moaning to one side with his kick, how he had thrown
the master to the ground. This was the first time she had ever told the
story, but she told it very well.</p>

<p>“His name was Frederick—the same color, the same powerful shoulders
and the same big head.”</p>

<p>“But this man—he looked older—he’s educated! If you had heard him!”
Jack could not believe this thing.</p>

<p>Amelia only smiled.</p>

<p>“I found out afterward that even then he could read and write. Mr.
Covey had him help with the accounts.”</p>

<p>“It’s just too incredible. That man from the Eastern Shore!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p>

<p>Mrs. Royall spoke precisely. “Young man, when you’re my age you’ll know
that it’s the incredible things which make life wonderful.”</p>

<p>And Amelia added, “There couldn’t be two Fredericks—turned from the
same mold!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Eight"><span class="smcap">Chapter Eight</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>On two sides of the Atlantic</i><br>
</p>


<p>Many people would have shared Jack’s reluctance to believe Amelia’s
story. As time passed the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society found
itself caught in a dilemma. The committee knew all the facts of
Frederick’s case; but for his protection the members took every
precaution, withholding the name of the state and county from which
he had come, his master’s name and any other detail which might lead
to his capture. Even so they realized that they must be constantly on
guard. But the audiences began to murmur that this Frederick Douglass
could not be a “fugitive from slavery.”</p>

<p>During the first three or four months Frederick’s speeches had
been almost exclusively made up of narrations of his own personal
experiences as a slave.</p>

<p>“Give us the facts,” said Secretary Collins. “We’ll take care of the
philosophy.”</p>

<p>“Tell your story, Frederick,” Garrison would whisper as his protégé
stepped upon the platform. And Frederick, smiling his devotion to the
older man, always followed the injunction.</p>

<p>But Frederick was growing in stature. Scholars’ libraries were thrown
open to him. Theodore Parker had sixteen thousand volumes; his library
covered the entire third floor of his house.</p>

<p>“Come up any time, Frederick. Books, my boy, were written to be read.”</p>

<p>And Frederick reveled in Thomas Jefferson, Carlyle, Edmund Burke, Tom
Paine, John Quincy Adams, Jonathan Swift, William Godwin. He became
drunk on books; staggering home late at night, his eyes red, he would
fall heavily across his bed. He pored over the newspapers from all
parts of the country which Garrison gathered in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> the <cite>Liberator</cite>
office; he sat at the feet of the greatest orators of the day—Wendell
Phillips, Charles Redmond, Theodore Parker among them. He munched
sandwiches and listened, while John Whittier read his verses; and
always the young fugitive from slavery followed in the wake of William
Lloyd Garrison, devouring his words, tapping his sources of wisdom,
attuning his ears to every pitch of the loved voice.</p>

<p>Frederick’s speeches began to expand in content, logic and delivery.</p>

<p>“People won’t believe you ever were a slave, Frederick, if you keep on
this way,” cautioned Collins. But Garrison shook his head.</p>

<p>“Let him alone!” he said.</p>

<p>The year 1843 was one of remarkable antislavery activity. The New
England Anti-Slavery Society mapped out a series of one hundred
conventions. The territory covered in the schedule included all of New
England, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana. Under Garrison’s
leadership it was a real campaign, taking more than six months to
complete. Frederick Douglass was chosen as one of the agents to tour
the country.</p>

<p>The first convention was held in Middlebury, Vermont, home of William
Slade, for years co-worked with John Quincy Adams in Congress. Yet in
this town the opposition to the antislavery convention was intensely
bitter and violent. Vermont boasted that within her borders no slave
had ever been delivered up to a master, but the towns did not wish to
be involved in “agitation.”</p>

<p>What was in this respect true of the Green Mountain State was most
discouragingly true of New York, the next state they visited. All
along the Erie canal, from Albany to Buffalo, they met with apathy,
indifference, and sometimes the mob spirit. Syracuse refused to furnish
church, market, house, or hall in which to hold the meetings. Mr.
Stephen Smith, who had received the little group of speakers in his
home, was sick with distress. Frederick, standing beside a wide window,
looked out upon a park covered with young trees. He turned to his
unhappy host.</p>

<p>“Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “We’ll have our meeting.”</p>

<p>The next morning he took his stand under a tree in the southeast
corner of this park and began to speak to an audience of five persons.
Before the close of the afternoon he had before him not less than five
hundred. In the evening he was waited upon by the officers of the
Congregational church and tendered the use of an old wooden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> building
which they had deserted for a better. Here the convention continued for
three days.</p>

<p>In the growing city of Rochester their reception was more cordial.
Gerrit Smith, Myron Holly, William Goodell and Samuel Porter were
influential Abolitionists in the section. Frederick was to know the
eccentric, learned and wealthy Gerrit Smith much better. Now he argued
with him, upholding Garrison’s moral persuasion against Gerrit Smith’s
ballot-box, as the weapon for abolishing slavery. From Rochester,
Frederick and William Bradburn made their way to Buffalo, a rising city
of steamboats, business and bustle. The Friends there had been able to
secure for the convention only an old dilapidated and deserted room
on a side-street, formerly used as a post-office. They went at the
time appointed and found seated a few cabmen in their coarse, wrinkled
clothes, whips in hand, while their teams were standing on the street
waiting for a job.</p>

<p>Bradburn was disgusted. After an hour of what he considered futile talk
and haranguing, he left. That evening he took the steamer to Cleveland.
But Frederick stayed on. For nearly a week he spoke every day in the
old post-office to constantly increasing audiences. Then a Baptist
church was thrown open to him. The following Sunday he spoke in an open
park to an assembly of several thousand persons.</p>

<p>In Richmond, Indiana, their meeting was broken up, and their clothes
ruined with evil-smelling eggs. In Pendleton, Indiana, Frederick’s
speaking schedule suffered a delay.</p>

<p>It had been found impossible to obtain a building in Pendleton in which
to hold the convention. So a platform was erected in the woods at the
edge of town. Here a large audience assembled and Frederick and his
companion speaker, William A. White, were in high spirits. But hardly
had they climbed to the stand when they were attacked by a mob of about
sixty persons who, armed with clubs, picks and bricks, had come out to
“kill the nigger!”</p>

<p>It was a furious but uneven fight. The Friends tried to protect
Frederick, but they had no defense. White, standing his ground, pleaded
with the ruffians and got a ferocious blow on the head, which cut his
scalp and knocked him to the ground. Frederick had caught up a stick,
and he fought with all his strength; but the mob beat him down, leaving
him, they supposed, dead on the ground. Then they mounted their horses
and rode to Anderson where, it was said, most of them lived.</p>

<p>Frederick lay on the ground at the edge of the woods, bleeding<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> and
unconscious. Neal Hardy, a Quaker, carried him to his cart and took him
home. There he was bandaged and nursed. His right hand had been broken
and never recovered its natural strength and dexterity. But within a
few days he was up and on his way. His arm was in a sling but, as he
remarked, the rest of him “little the worse for the tussle.”</p>

<p>“A complete history of these hundred conventions would fill a volume
far larger than the one in which this simple reference is to find
place,” Frederick Douglass wrote many years later. “It would be a
grateful duty to speak of the noble young men who forsook ease and
pleasure, as did White, Gay and Monroe, and endured all manner of
privations in the cause of the enslaved and down-trodden of my race....
Mr. Monroe was for many years consul to Brazil, and has since been a
faithful member of Congress from Oberlin District, Ohio, and has filled
other important positions in his state. Mr. Gay was managing editor
of the <cite>National Anti-Slavery Standard</cite>, and afterward of the
<cite>New York Tribune</cite>, and still later of the <cite>New York Evening
Post</cite>.”<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The following winter, against the advice of his friends, Douglass
decided on an independent course of action.</p>

<p>“<i>Your word</i> is being doubted,” he said to Garrison and Phillips.
“That I cannot endure. They are saying that I am an impostor. I shall
write out the facts connected with my experience in slavery, giving
names, places and dates.”</p>

<p>“It will be a powerful story!” said Garrison, his eyes watching the
glow of light from the fireplace.</p>

<p>Theodore Parker spoke impatiently. “So powerful that it will bring the
pack on his heels. And neither the people nor the laws of Massachusetts
will be able to protect him.”</p>

<p>“He’s mad!” Wendell Phillips’ golden voice was hard. “When he has
finished I shall advise him to throw the manuscript in the fire!”</p>

<p>But Garrison smiled.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll find a way. God will not lose such a man
as Frederick Douglass!”</p>

<p>They looked at him sitting there in the dusk, with the firelight
playing over his calm face. There were times when Garrison’s quiet
faith confounded the two divines.</p>

<p>A way did reveal itself. In May, 1845, the <cite>Narrative of the Life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> of
Frederick Douglass</cite>, prefaced by letters by Garrison and Phillips,
made its appearance. Priced at fifty cents, it ran through a large
edition. In August, Douglass, with a purse of two hundred and fifty
dollars raised by his friends in Boston, boarded the British ship
<i>Cambria</i> for England, in company with the Hutchinsons, a family
of Abolitionist singers, and James Buffum, vice-president of the
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society.</p>

<p>Anna stood on the dock and waved goodbye. She smiled, though the ship
was blurred and she could not distinguish his dear face at the rail.
A blast of the whistle made little Freddie clutch her skirts and bury
his face in alarm. He wanted to go home. Close by her side, straight
and unmoved, stood six-year-old Lewis, holding the hand of his weeping
sister, Rosetta.</p>

<p>“Look after Mother and the children, Son. I’m depending on you!” Lewis
was turning over his father’s parting words. Now he would be the man of
the house. Girls, of course, could cry. He watched his mother’s face.</p>

<p>A few final shouts, a last flutter of handkerchiefs, some stifled sobs,
and the relatives and friends of the voyagers began to disperse. Anna
felt a light touch on her arm.</p>

<p>“Come, Mrs. Douglass”—it was Mrs. Wendell Phillips—“we’re going to
drive you home.”</p>

<p>Friends surrounded her—comforting, solicitous.</p>

<p>“You can depend upon us, Mrs. Douglass. You know that.”</p>

<p>Anna smiled. She had wanted him to go, to get out of harm’s reach. She
could not continue to live in the terror that had gripped her ever
since Frederick had returned from the western trip. He had made light
of the “Indiana incident,” but his broken hand could not be hidden.
Each time he left her after that, she knew what <i>might</i> happen. So
she had urged him to go; she had smiled and said, “Don’t worry about
us, Frederick. You must go!”</p>

<p>“My salary will be paid direct to you.”</p>

<p>“I’ll manage. Now that we’re in our home, it will be easy.” Nothing but
confidence and assurances for him.</p>

<p>The summer before they had bought a lot in Lynn, Massachusetts. They
had planned the house together; and in the fall—between trips and with
the help of several friends—Douglass had built a cottage.</p>

<p>Anna hated to leave New Bedford—“a city of friends,” she called it.</p>

<p>“But you see,” she explained to them ruefully, “the Douglass<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> family
has simply rent the seams of this little house. We have to have more
room.”</p>

<p>They had chosen Lynn because it was more on the path for Frederick’s
work and because the town had a thriving Anti-Slavery Society. Came
the day when they moved into their cottage. Anna washed windows and
woodwork, and Lewis followed his father around, “chunking up all the
holes” so that when the cold weather came they would be snug and warm.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The highway was good and the May day pleasant as the Reverend Wendell
Phillips drove Douglass’ family back to their home.</p>

<p>“How long do you think he’ll have to stay away, Mr. Phillips?”</p>

<p>They were nearly there, before Anna dared ask the question she had been
avoiding.</p>

<p>Wendell Phillips flicked his whip. It was a moment before he answered.</p>

<p>“It’s impossible to say, Mrs. Douglass. We’re certain he’ll render
valuable service to the cause of freedom among peoples who do not know
the real horrors of American slavery. Meanwhile, we’ll do what we can
to see that his own return may be safe.”</p>

<p>“Pray God the time will not be long!” Mrs. Phillips laid her hand over
that of the woman by her side.</p>

<p>Then they were at the gate and goodbyes were said. The children climbed
down nimbly and rushed up the path. Anna moved more slowly.</p>

<p>She smiled at the sight of moist, chubby Charlie in the neighbor
woman’s arms. This was their youngest son—hers and Frederick’s. Poor
little fellow! Anna felt her heart contract. <i>He</i> didn’t know his
father was going so far away.</p>

<p>“Hasn’t whimpered a mite,” the neighbor had kept him during the
family’s absence. “So I mixed up a pot of soup for you. It’s on the
stove all ready. I knew you’d all be starved.”</p>

<p>Anna’s voice choked when she tried to thank the good soul. The woman
patted her arm and hurried homeward across the vacant lot.</p>

<p>Small Charlie was quite happy, so Anna left him with the other children
and went to the room she shared with her husband. It was very small.
The wardrobe door, left swinging open, bumped against the washstand
crowding the bed. Anna took off her hat, placed it on the shelf and
closed the door. Moving mechanically, she emptied the half-filled
bowl of water on the stand and hung up an old alpaca coat.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> Frederick
had discarded it at the last moment. Then she stood motionless, just
thinking.</p>

<p>She had not told him she was going to have another baby: he might not
have gone. But she knew she needed more money than that tiny salary.
She could not leave the children. There must be something she could do.
She must manage. Suddenly her face lighted. Lynn, Massachusetts, had
one industry which in the early 1840’s spilled over into every section.
Lynn had developed like a guild town in England; and that evening
Anna made up her mind that she could do what was being done in many
households in the town—she would make shoes.</p>

<p>In time she learned to turn a sole with the best of them.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Meanwhile a ship was going out to sea. And all was not smooth sailing.</p>

<p>“We should have taken one of the French boats—even if they are
slower!” Mrs. Hutchinson regarded the apologetic purser scornfully.</p>

<p>“I’ll see the Captain at once.” And James Buffum stalked away in search
of him.</p>

<p>No cabin had been assigned to Frederick Douglass. Though the tickets
had been purchased together, the party was being separated—the
Hutchinsons and Mr. Buffum sent to cabins, Frederick Douglass to the
steerage.</p>

<p>Douglass took no part in the angry discussion that ensued. It was an
old story to him. Negroes who had the temerity to travel about the
United States were subject to insults and indignities. On the Sound
between New York and Stonington no colored man was allowed abaft the
wheel. In all seasons of the year, hot or cold, wet or dry, the deck
was his only place. Douglass had been in many fights—had been beaten
by conductors and brakemen. He smiled now remembering the time six men
ejected him from a car on the Eastern Line between Boston and Portland.
He had managed to tear away several seats and break a couple of windows.</p>

<p>But this morning, as the <i>Cambria</i> nosed her way out of the bay
and started back to the Old Country which so many had left in their
search for freedom, Douglass shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>“Let it go!” he said. “We’ll all reach England together. If I cannot go
to the cabins, you can come to me in the steerage.”</p>

<p>“Oh, yes, Mr. Douglass,” Captain Judkins quickly intervened.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> “There is
only the formality of an invitation. You can visit your friends at any
time.”</p>

<p>“Thank you, sir!” Douglass bowed gravely.</p>

<p>But Mrs. Hutchinson would not be quieted. “It’s ridiculous!”</p>

<p>Her husband sighed and slipped his arm through Frederick’s.</p>

<p>“Let’s go now and see that our friend is properly settled,” he said.</p>

<p>So they all went first to the steerage. And here, to the edification of
the steerage passengers, they spent most of their time. But, as always
happens within a small world, word got around, and during the long
afternoons and evenings other first-class passengers began visiting the
steerage.</p>

<p>The Hutchinsons, celebrated vocalists, sang their sweetest songs, and
groups gathered on the rude forecastle-deck in spirited conversation
with Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>“Always thought Abolitionists were crackpots!” The man from Indiana
frowned.</p>

<p>“Wouldn’t think any—er—a black could talk like that!” The speaker,
who came from Delaware, certainly had never heard such talk before.</p>

<p>“This man—he is not black.” The tinge of foreign accent in the words
caused the Americans to glance up sharply. Perhaps the immaculate
swarthy passenger was from Quebec. A Washingtonian eyed him coolly and
rose to his feet.</p>

<p>“He’s a nigger just the same!” he said, and walked away from the group.</p>

<p>They fell silent after that. But some time afterward several of the
passengers approached the Captain with the request that he invite this
unusual character to deliver a lecture in the salon. Captain Judkins,
who had been unhappy about the matter, gladly complied. He himself went
to the steerage and sat chatting with the ex-slave. The dark man’s
manners captivated him.</p>

<p>Announcement was made of the scheduled lecture. News of the Captain’s
visit to the steerage got around. In one of the most expensive suites
on the ship three young men faced each other. They were trembling with
rage.</p>

<p>“By God, suh,” said one, thumping the table with his fist, “we won’t
stand for it!”</p>

<p>“Invited to the salon!” said another.</p>

<p>“By the Captain!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p>

<p>The pampered son of a Louisiana planter tore his silk cravat as he
loosened it.</p>

<p>“Dog of a runaway slave—flaunted in our faces!” His voice choked in
his throat. His cousin quickly assented.</p>

<p>“Fool Captain ought to be horsewhipped!”</p>

<p>The fair-haired boy from Georgia emptied his glass of brandy and waved
his hand drunkenly.</p>

<p>“Just a minute, gentlemen. No rash talk! Gotta plan—that’s it—gotta
plan!”</p>

<p>“Plan—hell!” The dark face of the Louisianian flushed dangerously.
“We’ll just throw the nigger overboard if he dares show his impertinent
face!”</p>

<p>“Yes,” agreed his cousin. “That’ll show the damned Yankees!”</p>

<p>They did not really believe he would come. But, of course, they did not
know Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>On the appointed evening the salon filled up early. Few of the ladies
had dared to go to the steerage, and now flowered ruffles and curls
fluttered with excitement as they settled into the cushioned seats.
Promptly on the hour the imposing figure appeared in the doorway. At a
sign from the Captain, who had risen, Douglass walked toward the front
of the room.</p>

<p>Then it happened.</p>

<p>The three young men were now five. At Douglass’ appearance the two who
were inside the salon sprang quickly to their feet, the three who had
been watching from the deck came running in.</p>

<p>“We’ll stop him!”</p>

<p>“Get the nigger!”</p>

<p>“Throw him overboard!”</p>

<p>Ladies screamed, men jumped up, but Frederick only stood still while
they closed in on him. Perhaps he had expected something like this. At
any rate, his face did not change. The clamor increased as, cursing,
the young men knocked aside any opposition.</p>

<p>But they had reckoned without the Captain. The stern old Britisher’s
voice thundered out. His shipmen came running, and before the rioters
could realize what had happened, they were struggling in the firm grasp
of British seamen, who looked toward the Captain for further orders.</p>

<p>Captain Judkins was outraged. He glared at the offenders who, utterly
bewildered by the turn of events, were stuttering their objections. The
Captain chose to ignore everything except one obvious fact.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p>

<p>“Put these young drunks in irons until they sober up!” He turned away,
leaving his competent crewmen to execute the order.</p>

<p>The Louisianian’s face paled. He stared about stupidly, expecting the
whole roomful of people to rise in protest. But they did not. The faces
swam before his eyes crazily as, stumbling a little, he was led away.
Later he heard them applauding on the upper deck.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The next day they sighted land. A mist between the ocean and the sky
turned green, took shape. The man beside Frederick gripped the rail
with his broken nails.</p>

<p>“’Tis Ireland,” he repeated softly. And there was pain and heartache in
his voice.</p>

<p>Frederick did not sleep that night. He was one of the huddled group
that stayed on deck. They talked together in low voices, watching the
distant flicker of an occasional light, straining their ears to catch
some sound. Some of them had failed in the bewildering New World, and
they were going back. Others had succeeded and now were returning for
parents or wives and children.</p>

<p>But Frederick was breaking through the horizon. He was getting on the
other side. He had sailed through the sky. America and all that it had
meant to him lay far behind. How would Europe receive this dark-skinned
fugitive from slavery?</p>

<p>The ship docked at Liverpool, but certain preliminaries prevented the
passengers from going ashore immediately. Baltimore, New Bedford, not
even New York, had prepared Frederick for the port of Liverpool. It was
rapidly becoming Britain’s monstrous spider of commerce, flinging its
sticky filaments to the far corners of the world and drawing into its
net all that the earth yields up to men.</p>

<p>Just inside the bottleneck entrance to the Mersey River, kept
relatively free from silt by tidal scour, Liverpool was once a shelter
for fishing vessels which built up a comfortable coastal trade with
Ireland. Medieval sailors gave little thought to the sandstone hill
that lay beyond the marshy fringe. The Dee River silted up and trade
with America grew; and it was found that Liverpool was well situated
to meet the change. The mouth of the old pool was converted into wet
docks, the marshes were hollowed out, and railroads tunneled through
the sandstone hill with ease. The British Empire was expanding.</p>

<p>Now all along the wharves rode merchant ships of every variety, ships
laden with iron and salt, timber and coal, grains, silks and woollens,
tobacco and, most of all, raw cotton from America.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p>

<p>Frederick saw them unloading the cotton and piling it high on the
docks. He knew it was going to the weavers of Lancashire. He wondered
if those weavers knew how cotton was planted and chopped and picked.</p>

<p>The Hutchinsons had been in Liverpool before, so they all went to a
small hotel not far from the wide Quadrant. Frederick stood in the
square gazing up at the great columned building fashioned after the
Greek Parthenon and for a moment he forgot about the cotton. He liked
the quiet, solid strength of that building. He resolved to visit it to
feel the stone and measure the columns.</p>

<p>Quite unexpectedly Liverpool became aware of Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>The young men who had been so rudely halted in their premeditated
violence, went immediately to the police demanding the arrest of the
“runaway slave” and of the ship’s Captain! They were not prepared for
the calm detachment of British justice. Never doubting the outcome,
the young men repaired to the newspapers, where they told of their
“outrageous treatment,” denounced the Captain and all his crew and
heaped abuse upon the insolent instigator of this “crime against
society.”</p>

<p>British curiosity is not easily aroused. But the young men’s language
pricked both the authorities and the newspapermen. They did not like
it. They dropped in on Captain Judkins. His words were few, brusque and
pointed. The police asked politely if he wished them to lock the young
men up. The Captain considered their proposal coolly and decided he had
no interest in the young men. He <i>was</i> going to take his Missus
to hear the black American speak. She would enjoy it. And now, if the
inspector was finished, his Missus was waiting. The Captain hurried
away, rolling a little on his sea legs; and the newspapermen decided
they would visit the “black American.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The Honorable William Gladstone, down from London for a few days,
re-read a certain column in his paper over a late and solitary
breakfast. The new Colonial Secretary spent most of his time in London;
but Liverpool remained his home. It was a lovely house, well out of
town, away from the dirt and noise of warehouses and docks. Well back
from the graveled road, behind high fences and undulating greens, sat
the residences of England’s merchant princes. Gladstone had represented
his neighbors in the government since he was twenty-three years old,
first as vice-president and then president of the Board<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> of Trade. Now,
at thirty-six, he had been made Colonial Secretary. It took a man who
knew trade and the proper restrictions for its protection to handle the
affairs of Egypt, Australia and fabulously rich India.</p>

<p>The young man frowned and crumpled his paper.</p>

<p>“Nevins!” he called.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir!”</p>

<p>“Nevins, have you been in town this week?”</p>

<p>Nevins considered before answering. There must be no mistake about this
matter.</p>

<p>“Not this week, sir.”</p>

<p>“Well, have you heard any talk of a British India Society meeting?”</p>

<p>“I beg your pardon, sir?”</p>

<p>“India Society,” the Colonial Secretary explained, “or anything
at all about India. I understand there have been meetings in the
provinces—talk about starving India—Indian independence—some sort of
agitation.”</p>

<p>“We’ve had nothing of that kind in these parts.” Nevins spoke with a
touch of disapproval.</p>

<p>The Colonial Secretary picked up his paper. He frowned at it a moment.</p>

<p>“I was wondering if there were any connection. Any connection at all.
Might well be, you know.”</p>

<p>“I don’t understand, sir.”</p>

<p>“There’s something here about a runaway slave from America speaking in
town tonight—at one of those workers’ halls. They’re springing up all
over England.” He added the last thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“Did you say a slave, sir, perhaps an African cannibal?”</p>

<p>“Exactly. This gives a most extraordinary account of the fellow on
shipboard. Ship’s Captain says he’s educated.”</p>

<p>“I can’t believe it, sir.”</p>

<p>“Um—would be very strange, if true. But who would be bringing him over
here?” The American Revolution had not yet become a mellowed memory.
Americans—white or black—would bear watching.</p>

<p>“Nevins!”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>

<p>“I should like you to attend this meeting.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p>

<p>“I, sir?”</p>

<p>“Find out what this slave has to say and what’s behind him.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It had really been planned by the Hutchinsons as a concert. The
Anti-Slavery Society had asked Mr. Buffum to say a few words. Douglass
was merely to be presented and to say that he was glad to be in
England. But the newspapers had played up Frederick Douglass’ story
so much that at the last moment they decided to seize the opportunity
and feature him. When, long before dark the hall began to fill, it was
obvious that they had come to hear “the black man.”</p>

<p>While the crowd listened respectfully to the Hutchinsons, Frederick
studied his first British audience. Somehow it was different. He
realized it bore out what he had witnessed in two days of wandering
about Liverpool. For the first time in his life he had seen white
people whose lot might well be compared with that of the black slave
in America. Here in Liverpool they could indeed leave their jobs, he
thought grimly; but their children would starve. He saw them living in
unbelievable squalor, several families herded together in two or three
rooms, or in a single dirty cellar, sleeping on straw and shavings.</p>

<p>He sat on the platform and studied their faces. There was something in
their eyes, something in the stolid set of their chins, something hard
and unyielding, some strength which could not be destroyed—something
to join with his strength. And so when he rose he did not fumble for
words. He told them that he was glad that here on British soil he was
truly free, that no slave-hunter could drag him from the platform, no
arm, however long, turn him over to a master. Here he stood a free man,
among other free men!</p>

<p>They cheered him lustily. And when they had quieted down he began to
talk to them about cotton. He talked to them of the cotton piled high
on the docks of Liverpool and how it got there. He talked to them of
black hands picking cotton and blood soaking into soil around the
cotton stalks.</p>

<p>“Because British manufacturers need cotton, American slavery can defy
the opinions of the civilized world and block Abolitionists in America
and England. If England bought free cotton from some other part of the
world, if she stopped buying slave-grown cotton, American slavery would
die out.”</p>

<p>Graphically, he added up the horrors of slavery. He told how the labor
of the slave in chains cheapened and degraded labor everywhere. They
listened, leaning forward in their seats, their eyes fixed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p>

<p>“Cotton can be grown by free labor, at a fair cost and in far greater
abundance, in India. England, as a matter of self-interest as well as
on the score of humanity, should without delay redress the wrongs of
India, give protection and encouragement to its oppressed and suffering
population, and thus obtain a permanent and abundant supply of free
cotton produced by free men.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“A powerful speech, sir!” Nevins reported the next morning.</p>

<p>The Colonial Secretary looked at his man with some impatience.</p>

<p>“Well, really, Nevins! Let’s be a bit more specific. A black make a
powerful speech—something of an exaggeration, surely!”</p>

<p>“He’s not really a black, sir,” Nevins answered surprisingly.</p>

<p>“Good Lord! What is he then?”</p>

<p>“I couldn’t rightly say, sir.” There was a dogged stubbornness about
Nevins this morning. The Colonial Secretary shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>“Well, well. What did he talk about?”</p>

<p>A lucid thought flashed across Nevins’ mind.</p>

<p>“He talked about cotton, sir.”</p>

<p>“About cotton?” The Colonial Secretary stared. “What on earth did he
say about cotton?”</p>

<p>“He said that better cotton could be raised in India than in America.”</p>

<p>The lucid moment passed, and Nevins could tell no more. But the young
Colonial Secretary saw the newspaper accounts of Douglass’s talk before
he returned to London. He took out his notebook and on a clean, fresh
page he wrote a name, “Frederick Douglass.” Then he thoughtfully drew
a circle around it. William Gladstone’s mind had projected itself
into the future, when there might be no more cheap cotton coming from
America. The Colonial Secretary was a solid young man with no nonsense
about him.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Across the narrow strip of water, in Dublin, Daniel O’Connell sat in
a ruby-brick house off Rutland Square, while the dusk of a September
evening closed about him. He held a letter in his hand—a letter he
had been re-reading while he waited. From far-off America his friend,
William Lloyd Garrison, had written:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>I send him to you, O’Connell, because you of all men have most to
teach him. He is a young lion, not yet fully come into his strength,
but all the latent power is there. I tremble for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> him! I am not a
learned man. When confronted with clever phrasing of long words I
am like to be confused. Scholars well versed in theology say I am a
perfectionist.... As Christians, I believe we must convert the human
race. Yet, God forgive me, doubts assail my heart. Here is a man,
a few short years ago a slave. I stand condemned each time I look
into his face. I am ashamed of being identified with a race of men
who have done him so much injustice, who yet retain his people in
horrible bondage. I try to make amends. But who am I to shape this
young man’s course? I have no marks of a lash across my back; I’ve
had the comforts of a mother’s tender care; I speak my father’s name
with pride. I am a free white man in a land shaped and designed for
free white men. But you, O’Connell, know of slavery! Your people are
not free. Poor and naked, they are governed by laws which combine all
the vices of civilization with those of primitive life. The masses of
Ireland enjoy neither the freedom of the savage, left to roam his own
forests and draw fish from his rivers, nor the bread of servitude....
From you, Frederick Douglass can learn. I commend him to you, with my
love. He will strengthen your great heart. He will renew your faith
and hope for all mankind.</p>
</div>

<p>The old man sat, turning the letter in his hand. The years lay heavy
along his massive frame. His own voice came back to him: <i>Sons of
Ireland! Agitate, agitate, agitate!</i></p>

<p>Yet the evictions of starving tenants went on. The great castle in its
circle of wretched cabins, stripped the surrounding country of food
and fuel. People were ignorant because they could not go to school,
slothful because there was nothing they could do. Drunkards because
they were cold. Ireland had long been in subjection harsh enough to
embitter, yet not complete enough to subdue. But the failure of the
potato crop this year had brought a deadening apathy. The Irish cottier
was saying he could never be worse off or better off by any act of his
own. And everywhere there were the gendarmes, sodden with drink and
armed with carbines, bayonets and handcuffs.</p>

<p>Daniel O’Connell had been thirty-six years old when, in 1812, Robert
Peel came to Dublin. To O’Connell the twenty-four-year-old Secretary
for Ireland was the embodiment of everything English. The Irishman
had been destined and educated for the priesthood, had taken up law
instead, and risen as rapidly as a Catholic could in a Protestant
government. An Irish Catholic could vote, but could not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> sit in
Parliament; he could enter the army, navy or professions, but could not
rise to the higher ranks. The universities and all the important posts
in the Civil Service were closed to him.</p>

<p>As an advocate, Daniel O’Connell had been greatly in demand. In those
days he stood six feet tall, with a head of fox-red curls and a face
that had irregular, almost ugly features. They said his voice could be
heard a mile off and was like music strained through honey. Reckless,
cunning, generous and vindictive, O’Connell had fought for Ireland.
They threw him in jail when he challenged Robert Peel to a duel. It
never came off. He finally apologized, thinking to propitiate the
Englishman in the matter of his Catholic Relief Bill that was up before
Parliament.</p>

<p>Now Robert Peel was Prime Minister of England, and misery still lay
like a shroud over all Ireland. O’Connell shook his head. Garrison was
mistaken. There was nothing he could teach his young man. At seventy,
one’s work is finished, and he, Daniel O’Connell, had failed.</p>

<p>After a while the girl brought in a lighted lamp and set it on the
table. O’Connell said nothing. He was waiting.</p>

<p>Then he heard voices in the hall and he stood up, his keen eyes fixed
on the door. It opened to admit Frederick Douglass. The dark man stood
a moment where the lamplight fell on him; then he smiled. And something
in the Irishman’s tired heart ran out to meet that smile. O’Connell
strode across the room. He placed his two hands on the younger man’s
shoulders and looked deep into his eyes.</p>

<p>“My son, I’m glad you’ve come,” he said.</p>

<p>So Frederick Douglass saw Ireland and came to know its people. He
learned why women’s faces beneath their shawls aged so quickly. He
watched children claw the débris on the coal-quays of Cork. He saw the
rich grasslands of the Golden Vale where fine, fat cattle fed while
babies died for milk. Looking out over the Lakes of Killarney, he saw
on the one side uncultivated tracts, marshy wastes studded with patches
of heather, with here and there a stunted fir tree; and on the other,
along the foot of the mountains beside the lovely lakes, green, smiling
fields and woods of almost tropical vegetation. He learned that in
Ireland there were only rich and poor, only palaces and hovels.</p>

<p>“Misrule is due to ignorance and ignorance is due to misrule.”
O’Connell tapped the short stem of his pipe on the table. “Few
Englishmen ever visit Ireland. When they do they drive in a carriage
from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> country house to country house. The swarms of beggars in Dublin
only fill them with disgust.”</p>

<p>“But—But why don’t these beggars work?”</p>

<p>“There are no industries in Ireland. Our wool and wheat go into English
mills. In Ireland, in order to work, one must have a plot of land.”</p>

<p>Frowning, Douglass grappled with the problem. Oppression then was not
confined to black folks! There was some common reason for it all.</p>

<p>O’Connell nodded his head.</p>

<p>“Possession of the land! This is the struggle, whether we’re talking
about the Gaels of Scotland and Ireland, the brown peoples of India, or
the blacks of South Africa. Indeed, where are your red men in America?”</p>

<p>The young man’s face showed something of horror. Was the earth so small
then that men must destroy each other to have their little bit?</p>

<p>“Not at all. But there have always been those who would share nothing.
Conquest has come to be a glorious thing. Our heroes are the men who
take, not those who give!”</p>

<p>The old man was in fine form that fall. The young man with his vibrant
personality and searching questions inspired him. Earlier in the year
he had vetoed plans for a huge rally at the great Conciliation Hall.
The place held twenty thousand people and O’Connell had not felt equal
to it. But now he announced a change of mind: he and Douglass would
speak there together.</p>

<p>It was an event talked of many a long winter evening afterward.
“Dan—Our Dan,” they said, outdid himself. The massive stooped
shoulders were squared, the white head high. Once more the magnificent
voice pealed forth.</p>

<p>“Until I heard this man that day,” Douglass himself wrote, “I had
thought that the story of his oratory and power was exaggerated. I
did not see how a man could speak to twenty or thirty thousand people
at one time and be heard by any considerable portion of them, but the
mystery was solved when I saw his ample person and heard his musical
voice. His eloquence came down upon the vast assembly like a summer
thunder-shower upon a dusty road. At will he stirred the multitude to
a tempest of wrath or reduced it to the silence with which a mother
leaves the cradle-side of her sleeping babe. Such tenderness, such
pathos, such world-embracing love! And, on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> other hand, such
indignation, such fiery and thunderous denunciation, such wit and
humor, I never heard surpassed, if equaled, at home or abroad.”<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>

<p>A piece on O’Connell came out in <cite>Brownson’s Review</cite>. Mr. O. A.
Brownson, recently become a Catholic, took issue with the “Liberator”
of Ireland for having attacked American institutions. O’Connell gave
another speech.</p>

<p>“I am charged with attacking American institutions, as slavery is
called,” he began. “I am not ashamed.... My sympathy is not confined to
the narrow limits of my own green Ireland; my spirit walks abroad upon
sea and land, and wherever there is sorrow and suffering, there is my
spirit to succor and relieve.”</p>

<p>The striking pair toured Ireland together. O’Connell talked about the
antislavery movement and why the people of Ireland should take part in
it; Douglass preached O’Connell’s doctrines of full participation of
all peoples in government and legislative independence.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“There must be government,” said O’Connell. They were talking together
quietly in the old man’s rooms. “And the people must take part, must
learn to vote and take responsibility. You have a fine Constitution in
the United States of America. I have studied it carefully.”</p>

<p>“I have never read it,” confessed the dark man, very much ashamed.</p>

<p>“No?” O’Connell studied the somber face. “But you have read the
Declaration of Independence. A glorious thing!”</p>

<p>“Yes.” And now there was deep bitterness. “And I find it only words!”</p>

<p>The Irishman leaned over and placed his hand upon the young man’s knee.
He spoke softly.</p>

<p>“Aye, lad—words! But words that can come alive! And that’s worth
working and even fighting for!”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Nine"><span class="smcap">Chapter Nine</span></h3>
</div>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>“<i>To be henceforth free, manumitted and discharged from all manner
of servitude to me....</i>”</p>
</div>


<p>The two letters reached them in the same mail. One came from James
Buffum to Frederick; the other was for Daniel O’Connell from George
Thompson, the English Abolitionist. Thompson, who had been stoned
from his platform in Boston on his last trip to America, had not met
Frederick. However, he had heard from William Lloyd Garrison.</p>

<p>Their letters said substantially the same thing: “We need Douglass in
Scotland.”</p>

<p>The facts were brief. It had been proved that the Free Church of
Scotland, under the leadership of the great Doctors Cunningham,
Candlish and Chalmers, had taken money from slave-dealers to build
churches and to pay church ministers for preaching the gospel. John
Murray of Bowlien Bay and other antislavery men of Glasgow had called
it a disgrace. The leading divines had thereupon undertaken to
defend, in the name of God and the Bible, not only the principle of
taking money from slavers, but also of holding fellowship with these
traffickers in human beings. The people of Scotland were thoroughly
aroused. Meetings were being called and strong speakers were needed.
Buffum and Thompson were already on their way to Edinburgh.</p>

<p>“You’ll come back, Frederick?” O’Connell’s voice was wistful. It was
like parting with a son.</p>

<p>“Come with us!” Frederick urged. But the “Liberator” shook his head.</p>

<p>“Our people are threatened with starvation. First our potatoes. And now
the wheat crop has failed in England. There is no longer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> time. Richard
Cobden writes that the Prime Minister may be with us. A shallow hope,
but I must be on hand if needed.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps then I shall see you in London?” The thought that he might not
see the old man again was unbearable.</p>

<p>“Perhaps, Frederick. God bless you!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Frederick found the famous old city of Edinburgh literally plastered
with banners. <i>Send Back the Money</i> stared at him from street
corners. Every square and crescent carried the signs. They had
scribbled it on the sidewalks and painted it in large white letters on
the side of the rocky hill which stands like some Gibraltar, guarding
the city: <i>Send Back the Money</i>.</p>

<p>For several days George Thompson, James Buffum and another American,
Henry C. Wright, had been holding antislavery meetings in the city. As
soon as Douglass arrived, they hurried him off to the most beautiful
hall he had ever seen. The audience was already assembled and greeted
him with cheers. Without taking time to remove the dust and grime of
travel, he mounted the platform and told his story.</p>

<p>After that, excitement mounted in the town. <i>Send Back the Money</i>
appeared in a banner across the top of Edinburgh’s leading newspapers.
Somebody wrote a popular street song, with <i>Send Back the Money</i>
in the chorus. Wherever Douglass went, crowds gathered. It was as if he
had become the symbol of the people’s demand.</p>

<p>At last the general assembly of the Free Church rose to the bait and
announced they would hold an open session at Cannon Mills. Doctors
Cunningham and Candlish would defend the Free Church of Scotland’s
relations with slavery in America. The great Dr. Chalmers was in feeble
health at the time. “Besides,” Douglass wrote afterward,<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> “he had
spoken his word on this question; and it had not silenced the clamor
without nor stilled the anxious heavings within.” As it turned out, the
whole weight of the business fell on Cunningham.</p>

<p>The quartet of Abolitionists made it their business to go to this
meeting of the opposition. So did the rest of Edinburgh. The building
held about twenty-five hundred persons. Long ahead of time, the crowd
gathered outside and stood waiting for the doors to open.</p>

<p>Douglass always remembered the meeting at Cannon Mills with relish.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p>

<p>Dr. Cunningham rose to tumultuous applause and began his learned
address. With logic and eloquence he built up his argument, the high
point of which was that neither Jesus Christ nor his holy apostles had
looked upon slaveholding as a sin.</p>

<p>Just as the divine reached this climax, George Thompson called out, in
a dear, sonorous, but rebuking voice, “Hear! Hear! Hear!” Speaker and
audience were brought to a dead silence.</p>

<p>“The effect of this common exclamation was almost incredible,” Douglass
reported.<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> “It was as if a granite wall had been suddenly flung up
against the advancing current of a river.... Both the Doctor and his
hearers seemed appalled by the audacity as well as the fitness of the
rebuke.”</p>

<p>After a moment the speaker cleared his throat and continued. But his
words stuck in his throat—the flow of language was dammed. The speech
dragged on for several minutes, and then the Doctor stumbled to his
seat to scattered patting of hands.</p>

<p>The Free Church of Scotland held on to its bloodstained money, and the
people bowed their heads in shame.</p>

<p>“Ours is a long history,” said Andrew Paton, sadly, “of incompetent
leadership and blind, unquestioning following by the ranks.”</p>

<p>“But this time you did protest. The people of Scotland know what
slavery means now,” George Thompson assured him.</p>

<p>Thompson, Buffum and Douglass traveled back to London together. They
went by stagecoach, stopping each night at some inn. It was like a
holiday. Frederick thought the soft mist that lay over all the land was
very lovely. And there was something comforting and homelike about the
way the stark grandeur of Scotland’s rugged crags gave way to rounded
hills, wide valleys and gently rolling moors. The roads of Ireland had
been bad, the occasional inns wretched and dirty. Now, for the most
part, they rolled along in state; and, when night came, lights from
an inn twinkled a jolly welcome, the dinner was hot and filling, the
innkeeper genial. Undoubtedly, thought Frederick, life is pleasanter in
England.</p>

<p>The three Abolitionists were teetotalers—temperance men on principle.
But Frederick could not stifle a desire to taste of the foamy ale which
he saw being tossed off with such gusto.</p>

<p>“Are you <i>sure</i> it’s alcoholic?” he asked.</p>

<p>Thompson threw back his head with a hearty laugh.</p>

<p>“If you mean will a bit of our ale with your dinner make you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> drunk.
I’ll say no.” He eyed him with a quizzical twinkle. “You’d like some?”</p>

<p>“Frederick!” Buffum frowned his disapproval. He was three-fourths
Massachusetts Puritan and he felt an older man’s responsibility.</p>

<p>But the Englishman spread his hands and reasoned.</p>

<p>“This is a test, Friend Buffum. Here is a newcomer to England. He
observes that ale is a national drink. He asks why?” He leaned forward.
“How can he speak of the temptations of any kind of drink if he has
never even tasted ale? Be logical, man!” Frederick was certain that one
eye winked. He grinned and looked anxiously at the Secretary of the
Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. By now he really <i>wanted</i> some
ale. Buffum had to laugh, if weakly. He clucked his tongue and shook
his head.</p>

<p>“Frederick, Frederick! What would the folks at home say?”</p>

<p>Thompson was signaling to the waiter to bring them a large ale.</p>

<p>“That,” he said sagely, as he turned back to his companions, “is
something history will not record!” He looked at Frederick’s broad,
rather solemn face and raised his eyebrows. “But I am of the opinion
that a single wild oat sown by our young friend will do him no great
harm.”</p>

<p>The boy came up, bearing three huge, foaming mugs, having interpreted
the order as he thought right. He set the mugs down with a thump,
scattering the suds in every direction, and departed before anyone
could say “Jack Robinson!”</p>

<p>“Well”—Thompson shook with laughter—“it seems our young friend here
is not going to sow his oats alone. So be it!” He raised his mug high
in the air and led off.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen! To the Queen! God bless her!”</p>

<p>As they neared London they talked plans.</p>

<p>“First,” said Thompson, “our distinguished visitor must have some
clothes.”</p>

<p>Frederick wondered whom he was talking about, but Buffum, his eyes on
Frederick, nodded his head thoughtfully.</p>

<p>“Yes, I suppose so,” he murmured. Then they both looked at Frederick
and he shifted uneasily. Answering the unspoken question in his face,
Thompson explained.</p>

<p>“You are becoming something of a celebrity. You will be going to
dinners and teas. You must have proper apparel.”</p>

<p>“But—” Frederick began, flushed and downcast.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p>

<p>“You are now in the employ of the World Anti-Slavery Society,” Thompson
went on, “our chief and most effective spokesman. In the interest
of the entire cause you must make what the French call the good
impression.”</p>

<p>Now Frederick’s apprehensions began to mount. How could he go into
English “society”?</p>

<p>“Clothes do not make a gentleman,” he said, shaking his head violently.
“I am a workingman. I will speak—yes—anywhere. I will tell the
meaning of slavery, I will do anything, but I have no manners or ways
for society.”</p>

<p>Thompson regarded the young man a long moment before answering.</p>

<p>“You are right, Frederick,” he said quietly. “Clothes do not make
a gentleman. They only serve to render him less conspicuous.” He
placed the tips of his fingers together and continued. “It will
interest you to know that our word aristocracy comes from the Greek
<i>aristokratia</i>, which is to say ‘the best workman.’” He leaned
forward. “Someday we’ll recognize that. Meanwhile, Frederick Douglass,
make no mistake about it—<i>you</i> belong!”</p>

<p>Came the evening when the swaying stagecoach drew up before the Golden
Cross Hostelry on Charing Cross. The thick fog gave Frederick a feeling
of unreality. He could see nothing but dim lights and looming shadows,
but he was surrounded by a kind of muffled, intermittent rumbling. He
stood in the drizzling rain listening.</p>

<p>“Come,” said Thompson, taking him by the arm. “Let’s get inside. You’ll
be drenched before you realize it.”</p>

<p>Thompson lived in Dulwich, a suburb of London, but he was going to stay
in town a few days until his friends had found suitable lodging and
until, as he put it, chuckling, Frederick was “launched.”</p>

<p>The next few days were busy ones. They found lodgings in Tavistock
Square, not far from the Tavistock House, where Dickens lived for ten
years. London would be Douglass’ headquarters. From there he would make
trips throughout England and in the spring would go to Wales. He was
waited upon by the British India Committee, the Society of Friends, the
African Colonial Society and by a group working for the repeal of the
Corn Laws.</p>

<p>“It is the poor man’s fight,” they said.</p>

<p>The newcomer listened carefully, read newspapers morning and night
and asked questions. He spoke at the Freemason’s Hall, taking as his
theme the right of every workman to have bread. Douglass<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> spoke well,
for he had only to step outside his rooms in London to see the pinch
of poverty. Then, just as Thompson had warned him, the writers William
and Mary Howitt sent a charming note asking him for a week-end in the
country. Fortunately Frederick had managed to see a good tailor.</p>

<p>“Go, Frederick,” his co-workers urged him. “They are Quakers. They have
influence. You will come back rested.”</p>

<p>Fall was closing around London like a shroud, but Clapham was
delightful. The Howitts greeted him warmly.</p>

<p>“We have read your <cite>Narrative</cite>, so you are an old friend.”</p>

<p>This was Frederick’s initiation into English country life. He walked
out into the beautiful garden where, rounding a smilax, he almost
stepped on Hans Christian Andersen!</p>

<p>It was Mary and William Howitt who had translated the Danish writer’s
works into English. Andersen was very fond of them, and their home in
Clapham was his haven. When they had guests he could always putter
about in the garden. He knew that the famous ex-slave was coming that
afternoon, but he would meet him after the tea party was over. Now, on
his knees, trowel in hand, a smudge of mud on his nose, he stared with
amazement. <i>So much of darkness and beard—and what a head!</i></p>

<p>A peal of musical laughter behind him caused Frederick to turn. The
funny little man scrambled to his feet and Mary Howitt, who had
followed Frederick into the garden, was saying, “It is our dear Hans.”</p>

<p>Andersen knew very little English and Frederick had never before heard
Danish, so they could do very little more than grin at each other. But
later, before an open fire, Frederick read Hans Christian Andersen’s
fairy stories, while Andersen, sipping his brandy, watched the
expressive dark face. Their eyes met, and they were friends.</p>

<p>The next day Douglass asked the Howitts about their translations and
what it meant to study languages other than one’s native tongue. Then
the writer of fairy tales began to talk. He spoke in Danish, and Mary
interpreted. He talked of languages, of their background and history.
He told Frederick about words and their symbolic magic. And another
corner of Frederick’s brain unfolded itself.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>There was too much rain the summer and fall of 1845. Robert Peel, Prime
Minister of Great Britain, stood at his window and watched it beat down
on the slippery stones of the court. But he was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> not seeing the paving
stones, he was not seeing the dripping walls. He was seeing unripened
spikes of wheat rotting in the mud. He knew he had a crisis on his
hands and he was not ready.</p>

<p>Robert Peel was a Tory. His background and education, his
administration as Secretary of Ireland, his avowed policies, all had
been those of the Conservative party. In appearance he was cold and
proud. But he was an honest man, and he grew in wisdom.</p>

<p>Until the 1840’s, despite the vast industrial changes of the previous
half-century, some balance had been maintained between industry and
agriculture. British farmers had been able to feed most of the workers
in the new towns and factories and mines. But population had increased,
villages had dwindled, and whole networks of manufacturing towns had
sprung into being. When Peel took office the country was already in
serious straits. The problem was economic, he knew. He listened to the
speeches of John Bright, a Quaker cotton-spinner from Lancashire and he
received Richard Cobden.</p>

<p>“There are thousands of houses in England at this moment where wives,
mothers, and children are dying of hunger. Come with me and you will
never rest until you give them bread,” Cobden said.</p>

<p>Cobden backed his facts with logic. High tariffs kept out foodstuffs
and essential commodities; landowners were keeping up the price of
wheat while workingmen starved. Britain was on the verge of social
revolution.</p>

<p>So Robert Peel, the Conservative, began to reduce customs. In 1842 he
set a gradually lowering scale for corn duties. He sought to shift
the burden of taxation from the poor to the wealthier classes and to
cheapen the necessities of life. He saw that reforms were necessary,
but he wished to avoid hasty changes. And in this caution lay his
undoing.</p>

<p>His own party fell away. The Whigs distrusted the haughty, gray-eyed
Minister. What did he, a Tory, mean by “seeming” to favor lower
tariffs? The Irish still hated him because he stood firm against
Repeal of the Union. The Catholics opposed him because he had backed
nonsectarian schools.</p>

<p>But the enemy who kept closest watch was Disraeli. Not for a day did
this ambitious member of Parliament forget that he had been left
out of the new Prime Minister’s cabinet. He took this omission as a
personal slight. Hatred for Peel distorted his every move. Cleverly,
coolly, calculatingly, Disraeli widened the cleavage in party ranks; he
drew young aristocrats about him; he flattered them with his wit and
charm, and whispered that Robert Peel, <i>their</i> Robert Peel, was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>
betraying them. He was pushing the country into Free Trade. He would
open the gates to a deluge that would destroy England.</p>

<p>In the spring of 1845 Richard Cobden had risen in the House of Commons
and called for Repeal of the Corn Laws. He said that Free Trade ought
to be applied to agriculture and pointed to what it had done for
British manufacturing. He decried the old fallacy that wages vary
with the price of bread. He thundered that there was no truth in the
contention that wages were high when bread is dear and low when bread
is cheap. The Conservatives drew together, their faces hardening.</p>

<p>But Robert Peel no longer backed the Corn Laws. He wanted the
drawbridges around Britain lowered forever. But he wondered how
could he, leader of the Conservative party, carry through such a
revolutionary change? He decided to let the present Parliament run its
course. In the next election he would appeal to the country: he would
carry the fight to the people. Then they could send him back, free of
all party ties and obligations, as a Free Trader.</p>

<p>But the weather is no respecter of parliamentary elections! The wheat
crop failed in England, like the potato crop in Ireland. People were
starving, and the Corn Laws locked out food. Peel called a meeting of
his Cabinet, and the storm broke.</p>

<p>The Cobden forces were ready. They held great mass meetings, with
Cobden and Bright enlisting every available speaker. Frederick Douglass
addressed crowds in Piccadilly, on the docks, and in Hyde Park. He and
John Bright went down into Lancashire. They talked in Birmingham and
other towns and cities about the worker’s right to have bread.</p>

<p>Then one morning a week before Christmas, Bright burst into the rooms
on Tavistock Square, waving a newspaper.</p>

<p>“We’ve won! We’ve won!” he shouted. “The Cabinet’s intact, the Prime
Minister is back, the Repeal stands! We’ve won!”</p>

<p>James Buffum rolled out of bed and reached for the paper. Frederick,
partly dressed, emerged from behind a curtained cubicle and clapped the
little man on the shoulder. John Bright had watched his wife die of
starvation while he sat at his spindles. But he could not fill enough
spools. He could not spin fast enough. She had died. So John Bright had
left his loom and joined Richard Cobden. Now there would be more food
in England. He stood clinging to the dark man’s hand—this new friend
who knew so much about suffering.</p>

<p>“I’m going home,” he said in his rich rolling Lancashire brogue.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>
“I’m going down to tell the folks myself. Come with me. We’ll be glad
together!”</p>

<p>So it happened that Frederick spent the Christmas in a spinner’s shack
in Lancaster. On Christmas Eve he wrote Anna.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>The baby’s crying in the next room and here in the corner sleeps a
little lad just about Freddie’s age. He’s curled in a tight knot and
his hair is falling over his face. It’s not as round as I remember
Freddie’s, nor are his legs as plump. This house isn’t as big as our
little place in New Bedford and there are four children! But tonight
they’re all happy. The weavers carried on as if John and I had given
them the world! My hand shakes as I think of it. We brought a goose
and a few toys for the children. You should have seen their eyes!
Tomorrow we will feast! How I wish you could share this with me.
They’re letting me borrow their little ones. But my heart cannot but
be anxious for my own. Are you well and are the children well? I
enclose some money. Enough, I hope, for your most urgent needs. But my
real Christmas present to you is news that will make you very happy.
Friends here are raising money to purchase my freedom—seven hundred
and fifty dollars! The Misses Richardson, sweet sisters in Newcastle,
have written to Mr. Walter Forward of Philadelphia, who will seek
out Captain Auld and ask what he will accept for my person. He will
tell my former master that I am now in England and that there is no
possibility of my being taken. There can be little doubt that under
the circumstances the Captain will name his price—and be very glad to
get it! So, dear Anna, soon this separation will be at an end. I will
return to you and to my dear children, in fact and before the law, a
free man.</p>
</div>

<p>The writer sat for a few moments regarding that last line. Anna’s eyes
would shine when she read it. For an instant her face was there. Then
the child stirred in his sleep. Frederick rose and straightened the
little limbs on the cot. His hands were very tender.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“Frederick! I believe you’ve grown,” Garrison beamed. He had just
arrived in London from America.</p>

<p>John Bright nodded. “He is a big man,” he said.</p>

<p>Garrison whisked Frederick away to Sir John Bowring’s castle where they
had been asked for over New Year’s.</p>

<p>Sir John had represented England as Minister to China. He was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> a
brilliant talker and drew about himself a circle of literary friends.
On New Year’s Eve, Douglass stood at a table covered with fine linen
and old silver. He held in his hand a crystal glass and drank another
toast: “The Queen! God bless her!”</p>

<p>They were all back in London for the opening of Parliament. Robert Peel
on the side of the people! A great day for England!</p>

<p>As if to honor the auspicious occasion the fog blew away during the
night, and January 22, 1846, dawned clear and bright like a spring
day. People poured into the streets and lined Pall Mall. The Queen
was coming! They crowded into Cannon Row and Parliament Street and
surrounded Westminster Hall and Parliament. The Queen was coming!</p>

<p>Cobden had secured seats for them in the gallery, but Garrison and
Douglass lingered in the crowd, craning their necks. The bobbies were
forcing them back to keep the way clear when a modest, closed carriage
drew up and a tall figure in a high silk hat stepped out.</p>

<p>“It’s Peel! It’s Robert Peel!” shouted Garrison and that started the
crowd cheering. They had not recognized the Prime Minister. But the
tall, pale man looked neither to the right or left. He walked straight
ahead, unsmiling, and disappeared. The people were disappointed. They
wanted to know him. They wanted to be friends.</p>

<p>The cheers had not gone unheeded. In the great, open carriage with
prancing horses that now turned into the square, Disraeli tightened his
lips. The carriage stopped with a clatter, the footman sprang down and
threw open the door. Disraeli stepped out, his head high, his silken
cape enveloping him with majesty. The crowd pressed forward.</p>

<p>“Who is it?”</p>

<p>“Who is that man?”</p>

<p>“Disraeli!” someone answered.</p>

<p>“The Jew!” another voice added.</p>

<p>They drew back then, and let him pass in silence. Frederick Douglass
followed him with his eyes. There was something painful in the defiant
swagger. As he disappeared Frederick caught his breath sharply. He felt
a hurt in his chest.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry for that man,” he said, in a heavy tone.</p>

<p>“Why?” asked Garrison coolly. “He would spit upon you!”</p>

<p>Frederick shook his head. “Let’s go in.” Suddenly, he was very tired.</p>

<p>Inside he forgot his singular depression when, from the throne of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>
England, Queen Victoria declared the session of Parliament open. She
was only thirty-one years old at that time, not beautiful perhaps, but
a radiantly happy woman. Prince Albert was at her side. She was adored
by her people. None of their hardships were laid at her door. Now she
felt that a crisis had been successfully averted. Her voice rang with
confidence and pride as she addressed her trusted Prime Minister.</p>

<p>And all the Lords and Ministers of the realm bowed low. The royal
couple took their leave, and the business of running an empire was
resumed. Every eye turned toward Robert Peel.</p>

<p>The Prime Minister rose, very pale, and began to state his case. He
had the facts. Step by step, he unfolded his plan for combating the
economic stalemate: cheap raw materials for the manufacturer, no
protection against fair foreign competition, cheaper seed for the
farmer, the open door for foreign meat and corn; for all, cheaper
living.</p>

<p>No longer was his face cold and remote. The fires of deep conviction
glowed in his eyes, and there was passion in his final declaration of
independence.</p>

<p>“I will not, sirs,” he concluded, “undertake to direct the course of
the vessel by observations which have been taken in 1842.” His words
rang. “I do not wish to be Minister of England, but while I have the
high honor of holding that office, I am determined to hold it by no
servile tenure. I will only hold that office upon the condition of
being unshackled by any other obligation than those of consulting the
public interests, and of providing for the public safety.”</p>

<p>He bowed and took his seat. Douglass wet his dry lips. What did the
heavy silence mean? He wanted to blister his hands with applause.
Garrison laid his hand on the younger man’s arm.</p>

<p>There was a slight stir of movement, and Sir John Russell was on his
feet. He commended the Prime Minister’s speech and quietly backed it up
with the authentic statement of Whig disasters. Some of the tenseness
relaxed. There was polite applause when Sir John ended and a bit of
parliamentary phrasing by the clerk. Men moved restlessly, wondering
what to do next.</p>

<p>Then, like an actor carefully choosing his entrance Disraeli rose.
Slowly his eyes swept the chamber. There was a sneering smile on his
lips. It was as if he scorned their cowardly silence. Disraeli knew his
time had come.</p>

<p>He stepped forth as defender of everything sacred! He talked of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>
all the fine traditions of Great Britain. Englishmen, he said, must
be protected without and within, from those who would undermine her
power. The Prime Minister had given a “glorious example of egotistical
rhetoric,” and his policy was a “gross betrayal of the principles which
had put him in power and of the party which kept him there.”</p>

<p>The brilliance of his style held them spellbound. His defense
of England thrilled them and his attack on Peel justified their
selfishness. Disraeli took his seat to thunderous applause.</p>

<p>Douglass was shaking as though ill.</p>

<p>“What does it mean?” he asked, when they had got away.</p>

<p>“It means,” said Richard Cobden, grimly, “that we’ll have to fight
every inch of the way all over again. We have won nothing. Except that
now Disraeli will stop at nothing to ruin Peel.”</p>

<p>“But how can Disraeli oppose the cause of poor people? I thought he
knew of oppression and suffering from his own experience.” Douglass’
distress was very real. John Bright tried to explain.</p>

<p>“Suffering and oppression often only embitter men, Frederick, embitter
and harden them. They close in upon themselves. They are so determined
to be safe that they are ruthless and cruel. Undoubtedly Disraeli has
suffered, but he has suffered selfishly—he has refused to see the
sufferings of other people. He will sacrifice anything for power.”</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass was learning what it takes to make men free. In the
spring he went up into Wales. He traveled, as he said in a letter which
was published in the <cite>Liberator</cite>, “from the Hill of Howth to the
Giant’s Causeway, and from the Giant’s Causeway to Cape Clear.” On May
12 he made a speech at Finsbury Chapel, Moorfields, which was published
throughout England. William Gladstone addressed a note to him, inviting
him to call.</p>

<p>Douglass heard that Daniel O’Connell was in London, that the Irish and
Catholics were joined in the coalition against Peel. Yet the Prime
Minister carried his Corn Bill through the House of Commons with
comparative ease. It began to look as if, in spite of Lord Bentinck and
Disraeli, it would get through the House of Lords. Then they attacked
Peel’s character.</p>

<p>Returning to London in May, Douglass immediately sought out O’Connell.
The old man greeted him warmly, but he was haggard and shaken. Also,
he was on the defensive. They could not avoid the subject which was
uppermost in both their minds.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p>

<p>“He’s a lifelong enemy of Ireland, lad.” O’Connell studied Frederick’s
troubled face anxiously.</p>

<p>“But Richard Cobden proves that Peel will listen to reason. Cobden has
won him so far along the way. His enemies are using the Irish question
now to destroy him.”</p>

<p>“He would tie Ireland to England forever!” The old man rose defiantly,
shaking his white hair.</p>

<p>On June 25 the Corn Bill passed in the House of Lords, but the same
day the Commons repudiated the Minister’s Life Preservation bill for
Ireland by a majority of seventy-three. Once more his enemies could say
that Peel had betrayed his principles and fooled his followers. Three
days later Peel tendered his resignation to the Queen.</p>

<p>That evening Douglass, accompanied by O’Connell, made his way to the
Parliament.</p>

<p>“He will speak tonight—for the last time,” John Bright had told them.</p>

<p>The members sat in their seats, strangely subdued. The contest between
Peel and Disraeli was over. True, the Corn Laws were repealed—the
gates were down. But Disraeli had forced Robert Peel out. He was
finished.</p>

<p>Yet the grimness which had marked his pale face in the past months was
gone, and in his final words there was a sense of peace that seemed to
reach beyond that time and place.</p>

<p>“When Ministers appear to change their course, and lay themselves open
to the charge of inconsistency, it were better perhaps for this country
and for the general character of public men that they be punished by
expulsion from office.” He did not blame them, then. There was no word
of bitterness. Moreover, the credit for his reforms, he said, should
not go to him. “The name which ought to be chiefly associated with the
success of these measures is the name of Richard Cobden,” one who has
achieved his disinterested purpose by “appeals to our reason.”</p>

<p>There was a slight rustle throughout the chamber. It was as if the very
shadows were listening.</p>

<p>“In relinquishing power, I shall leave a name censured by many who
deeply regret the severance of party ties, by others, who, from no
selfish interest adhere to the principles of Protection, considering
its maintenance essential to the welfare and interests of the country;
I shall leave a name execrated by every monopolist, who clamors for
Protection because it conduces to his own individual benefit. But it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>
may be that I shall leave a name sometimes remembered with expressions
of goodwill in the abodes of those whose lot it is to labor, and to
earn their bread by the sweat of their brow. Perhaps they too will call
my name when they shall recruit their exhausted strength with abundant
and untaxed food, the sweeter because it is not leavened by a sense of
injustice.”</p>

<p>It was all over in a few minutes. Frederick turned at a sound beside
him. O’Connell had covered his face with his two hands. Frederick
slipped his arm through his, pressing against him. The grand old man of
Ireland was weeping.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was the Reverend Samuel Hanson Cox who now decided that London had
had just about enough of Frederick Douglass!</p>

<p>Sixty or seventy American divines had arrived in London that summer for
the double purpose of attending the World Evangelical Alliance and the
World Temperance Convention. It was the avowed purpose of a group of
these ministers, under the leadership of the Reverend Cox, to procure
a blanket endorsement for the Christian character of slaveholders. The
matter was becoming a little ticklish in certain quarters, and these
churchmen were determined to establish the Biblical and divine status
of the “sons of Ham” whom—they agreed—God had designated “hewers of
wood and drawers of water.”</p>

<p>What was their dismay, therefore, to find one of the slaves running
around at large in England, speaking from platforms, and being invited
to the homes of respectable, but utterly misguided, Englishmen
<i>and</i> Englishwomen—<i>God save us!</i></p>

<p>The divines set about enlightening the English people. Before they
realized it, the question of slavery became a burning issue in the
Evangelical Alliance. And things did not go well. By far the larger
crowds were attracted to the Temperance Convention, which was being
held in huge Covent Garden. The Abolitionists planned carefully. One
afternoon when the Garden was packed, Frederick Douglass was called
from the audience to “address a few words” to the Convention. The
slavers’ advocates were thunderstruck! They could not believe that such
treachery existed within their own ranks. As, amid clamorous applause,
Douglass made his way to the platform, Reverend Cox leaped to his feet
and shouted his protests. But he was yelled down.</p>

<p>“Let him speak!”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p>

<p>“Hear him!”</p>

<p>“Douglass! Frederick Douglass!”</p>

<p>They shouted until the livid little divine sank helpless into his seat.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass, “the young lion,” had come into his full strength.
He stood facing the audience which filled every corner of Covent
Garden, and felt power coursing all along his veins. He resolved that
no man or woman within the sound of his voice that afternoon should
ever be able to say “I did not know!”</p>

<p>According to the account written by the Reverend Cox that appeared in
his denominational paper, the <cite>New York Evangelist</cite>, Douglass’
speech was “a perversion, an abuse, and an iniquity against the law
of reciprocal righteousness—inspired, I believe, from beneath, and
not from above. This Douglass,” said Reverend Cox, “denounced American
temperance societies and churches as a community of enemies of his
people. He talked to the American delegates as if he had been our
schoolmaster and we his docile and devoted pupils.”</p>

<p>And Covent Garden rocked as it seldom had in all its history.</p>

<p>“We all wanted to reply,” the account concluded, “but it was too late.
The whole theater seemed taken with the spirit of the Ephesian uproar;
they were boisterous in the extreme, and poor Mr. Kirk could hardly
obtain a moment to say a few well-chosen words.”</p>

<p>The applause was like thunder. When Douglass bowed and tried to leave
the platform, people rushed forward to seize his hand. They blocked his
path. Men and women wept. They shouted until they were hoarse. Nobody
heard or heeded “poor Mr. Kirk.” Douglass left the theater at the head
of a procession of Londoners, who continued to cheer him as they came
out on the street. Curious passersby swelled the ranks. They followed
him down Bow Street to Russell and past the Drury Lane Theater. But
just beyond the theater Frederick stopped. He faced the crowd and at a
motion from him they closed in around him.</p>

<p>“My friends,” he told them, “never in my life have people been so good
to me. But I have spoken not to arouse you to cheers, but to move you
to action. I have told you of slavery, of oppression, of wrongdoing
which is going on in this world. I tell you now that this is true not
only of black slaves in America, but of white slaves here in Europe. My
friends, these are not times for cheering. Go to your<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> homes, to your
shops and to your offices! Pass my words along and find the job that
you can do to bring about the freedom of all peoples. Go now, quickly!”</p>

<p>He stood facing them until they had dispersed, looking back over their
shoulders, talking excitedly.</p>

<p>Then, with a sigh of deep satisfaction, Frederick Douglass went walking
on down Russell Street. He turned into Drury Lane and half an hour
later was rolling along Fulham Road.</p>

<p>Tavistock Square no longer claimed him as a lodger. When James Buffum
returned to America and Douglass set out on his northern tour the attic
rooms were given up. Upon his return to London he had been invited
to make his home with friends in Chelsea where, in the rare periods
between strenuous rounds, he could enjoy a haven from the noise and
dirt of the city. He remembered that summer with pleasure—no fog, a
mild sun, long walks over the Heath, across Albert Bridge and down by
the river. Hours of undisturbed reading in a little arbor behind the
cottage continually opened new vistas and broadened his understanding.
More than the scars on his back, he deplored his lack of education. Now
he seized every opportunity to learn.</p>

<p>Back in America the Mexican War was arousing people. The possibility
of more slave states being added to the Union speeded up the
Abolitionists. Word was rushed to the Anti-Slavery Society in England
to enlist the people of Great Britain, to let the workers of Britain
know how slavery in America threatened all their hard-bought gains, and
perhaps get them to boycott slave-grown cotton.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass rose to the need. Thousands packed into the Free
Trade Hall in London to hear him; workers in Manchester and Birmingham
learned how cotton was produced; merchants and dock hands rubbed
shoulders at Concert Hall in Liverpool.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass spoke to men and women in every walk of life.
William Gladstone listened and learned from the black American.
In Edinburgh he was entertained by George Combe, and the eminent
philosopher listened as well as talked. Together they discussed the
Corn Laws, reduction of hours of labor, and what black slavery was
doing to the world. During this time Douglass was urged to remain in
Europe. He was offered important posts in Ireland and in Scotland.</p>

<p>“Send for your family, Douglass!” they said. “There is work here for
you to do.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p>

<p>But he shook his head. In spite of all his activities, he was growing
restless that winter. True, he was presenting the case of the slave
to Britain. In a few months he had become famous; but within himself
he felt that all this had only been a period of preparation. He was
like an athlete who, trained to the pink of condition, was only going
through preliminary skirmishes. For Frederick Douglass knew his real
work lay ahead—in America.</p>

<p>They were still waiting for the final settlement with Captain Auld.
He had asked one hundred and fifty pounds sterling for his slave. The
money had been promptly sent.</p>

<p>Then, one morning, a letter reached Douglass in Darlington. It was from
George Thompson.</p>

<p>“Your papers have arrived. Come down with us for two or three days
before you go to Wales. There is so much to talk about and I know this
means an early farewell.”</p>

<p>This was the beginning of his last days in Britain. He was invited to
dinners, receptions, teas, scheduled for “farewell” speeches.</p>

<p>“What will you do?” they asked.</p>

<p>“I should like to establish a paper, a paper in which I can speak
directly to my people, a paper that will prove whether or not a Negro
has mind, the tongue of reason, and can present facts and arguments
clearly.”</p>

<p>They placed twenty-five hundred dollars in his hands—as a start toward
this enterprise.</p>

<p>“You will come back!” They made it both a question and an affirmation.</p>

<p>“When we have won our fight!” He nodded.</p>

<p>A crowd accompanied him to the boat at Liverpool and stood waving him
goodbye. John Bright’s eyes were wet.</p>

<p>“We’ll miss you, Douglass!” said the little spinner from Lancaster.</p>

<p>The shores and wharves and people blurred as he stood on the deck. They
had been so good. He reached in his pocket and once more took out the
precious papers that declared him free.</p>

<p>The transaction had to be in two parts. Thomas Auld first sold him to
his brother Hugh, and then the Philadelphia lawyer had secured the
final manumission paper through the Baltimore authorities. It was this
second and final sheet that Frederick unfolded—the paper for which the
people of England had paid seven hundred and fifty dollars.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p><i>To all whom it may concern</i>: Be it known, that I, Hugh Auld, of
the city of Baltimore, in Baltimore county, in the state of Maryland,
for divers good causes and considerations, me thereunto moving, have
released from slavery, liberated, manumitted, and set free, and by
these presents do hereby release from slavery, liberate, manumit,
and set free, My Negro Man, named Frederick Bailey, otherwise called
Douglass, being of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts,
and able to work and gain a sufficient livelihood and maintenance;
and him the said negro man, named Frederick Bailey, otherwise called
Frederick Douglass, I do declare to be henceforth free, manumitted,
and discharged from all manner of servitude to me, my executors, and
administrators forever.</p>

<p>In witness whereof, I, the said Hugh Auld, have hereunto set my hand
and seal, the fifth of December, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and forty-six.</p>

<p class="right">
<i>Signed</i> <span class="smcap">Hugh Auld</span>.<br>
</p>

<p><i>Sealed and delivered in presence of</i> <span class="smcap">T. Hanson Belt</span>.<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p>
</div>

<p>He looked out across the waters. He had been away nearly two years. It
was spring, and he was going home.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Ten"><span class="smcap">Chapter Ten</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>A light is set on the road</i><br>
</p>


<p>Massachusetts hung out her fairest garlands that spring. The fruit
trees were in bloom. Dandelions a foot tall framed the winding roads in
gold; across the meadows lay Queen Anne’s lace and white daisies; the
lake shallows were covered with dark, green rushes; and alders, growing
at the water’s edge, stood between white and yellow water-lilies. There
was sweetness in the air.</p>

<p>Behind the little house between two cedar trees the line of white
clothes waved merrily in the breeze. Mrs. Walker from the other side of
the fence, stood in the doorway and admired the scrubbed and polished
kitchen.</p>

<p>“Land sakes, Mis’ Douglass, you <i>are</i> smart this morning!”</p>

<p>The dark woman, her sleeves tucked up, was kneading a batch of dough.
She did not stop. There was still so much to do, and her breasts were
heavy with milk. She must set these loaves before she nursed the baby.
But she smiled at her neighbor, her eyes shining.</p>

<p>“My husband’s coming home!”</p>

<p>Mrs. Walker laughed sympathetically.</p>

<p>“I know, but not today. Body’d think he was walkin’ in this minute.”</p>

<p>In the next room little Rosetta filled an earthen jar with buttercups
and violets she had picked down by the river. It spilled over and she
began to cry.</p>

<p>“Never mind,” comforted Lewis. He spoke with masculine superiority,
reinforced by his eight years. “Pa’s got no time for flowers anyhow.”</p>

<p>But Miss Abigail always kept flowers on the table. She had taught
Rosetta how to arrange them, and now the little girl wiped her eyes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>
and returned to her task. She had only that week been brought back
to the cottage in Lynn for her father’s homecoming. Shortly before
the baby was born the Misses Abigail and Lydia Mott had taken the
child to live with them in Albany. To this extent the Quaker ladies
had lightened Anna’s responsibilities. They had cared for and taught
Frederick Douglass’ little daughter carefully. Now she was home for a
visit, they said: they wanted her back.</p>

<p>“Don’t touch!” Rosetta climbed down from the chair and eyed her
centerpiece with satisfaction. She spoke to three-year-old Charlie,
whose round face was also turned toward the flowers. Freddie, all of
his six years intent on mending a hole in the fence, had sent his “baby
brother” into the house with a terse “Get outta my way!”</p>

<p>Charlie’s plump legs carried him hither and yon obeying orders. Now he
was wondering what he could do on his own. Pa was coming—and he wanted
to do something special. All at once he yelled, “I’ll show him the
baby!”</p>

<p>Two days later he clung, ecstatic with joy, to the big man’s coat when
for the first time the father held his new daughter in his arms. It was
love at first sight. Perhaps because she was called Annie, or perhaps
it was the very special way she wrapped her fist about his thumb.</p>

<p>Over the heads of their children, Anna and Frederick smiled at each
other. The months had put lines on her face; he knew the days and
nights had not been easy. He had yet to rub the rough callouses on
her hands and find out about the shoes! Anna saw that her husband had
grown, that he had gone far. He had walked in high places. But now he
was home again. They were together.</p>

<p>They feasted that evening. The children tumbled over themselves being
useful. They emptied their plates and then sat listening, wide-eyed. He
talked and then he too asked questions.</p>

<p>“Say nothing about the shoes. We’ll surprise him,” she had cautioned.</p>

<p><i>A joke on Pa!</i> They hugged their secret gleefully, as children
will.</p>

<p>At last the house was still and she lay down beside him.</p>

<p>“Everything’s gone fine, hasn’t it, dear?” He spoke with deep
contentment. “The children are well. The house looks better than it did
when I went away. How did you do it?”</p>

<p>Her body touched his in the old bed.</p>

<p>“I managed,” she murmured. The shoes had made her hands rough and hard.
His skin was warm and smooth.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span></p>

<p>“Have you missed me?” he asked.</p>

<p>Her sigh of response came from a heart at peace.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Washington read of Frederick Douglass’ return in the <cite>National
Era</cite>. Gamaliel Bailey had been printing short accounts of his
activities in Great Britain. Many of the Abolitionists had protested
against Douglass’ purchase by English friends. They declared it a
violation of antislavery principles and a wasteful expenditure of
money. The <cite>National Era</cite> took up the issue.</p>

<p>“Our English friends are wise,” Bailey’s editorial commented.
“Maryland’s slave laws still stand. Frederick Douglass is now free
anywhere in the United States, only because he carries manumission
papers on his person. The Eastern Shore can no longer claim him.”</p>

<p>The slaveholding power, it seemed, was stronger than ever. Texas with
its millions of acres had been admitted to the Union, and President
Polk was negotiating a treaty that favored the slave oligarchy.
Abolitionists had split over political matters and had weakened
themselves. But the sparks had fallen and were lighting fires in
unexpected places. Charles Sumner, emerging from the State Legislature
in Massachusetts, was moving toward the United States Senate. From
Pennsylvania came David Wilmot with his amendment of the proposed
treaty saying “neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall ever
exist in any part” of the territory acquired as a result of the
Mexican War. Longfellow, most popular author in America, was writing
thunderously on slavery; <cite>The Biglow Papers</cite> were circulating, and
petitions, signed by tens of thousands, were gathered and delivered
in Washington by Henry Wilson and John Greenleaf Whittier. Inside
Congress, the aged John Quincy Adams laid the petitions before the
House. The House tabled them—but the sparks continued to fly.</p>

<p>On an evening late in May a group of people responded to invitations
sent out by the Reverend Theodore Parker and gathered at his house in
Boston. He had called them together to discuss further strategy. Among
those present were Bronson Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Ellery
Channing,<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> Walter Channing,
<a id="FNanchor_9_" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> Wendell Phillips, James Russell Lowell,
James and Lucretia Mott, Charles Sumner, Joshua Blanchard, William
Lloyd Garrison and Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p>

<p>These men and women had not agreed on every issue in the past, but
now they united their efforts toward one single end: Slavery must be
stopped. If it could not now be abolished, at least it must not spread.
The <i>Wilmot Proviso</i> must be carried to the country.</p>

<p>And who was better equipped to carry out such a mandate than William
Lloyd Garrison and their newly returned co-worker, who had been hailed
throughout Great Britain? The man who bore his “diploma” on his back,
Frederick Douglass. So it was decided.</p>

<p>Douglass’ reputation no longer rested on the warm word of his
personal friends. Not only had accounts of him been printed in the
<cite>Liberator</cite>, but the <cite>Standard</cite> and the <cite>Pennsylvania
Freeman</cite> had told of his speeches and reception abroad. Every
antislavery paper in the country had picked up the stories. Horace
Greeley had told New York about him. Nor was the opposition unaware
of him. The advocates and supporters of slavery pointed to him as “a
horrible example” of what “could happen.”</p>

<p>“Douglass!” The name was whispered in cabins and in tobacco and rice
fields. It traveled up and down the Eastern Shore. A tall black girl,
dragging logs through the marsh, heard it and resolved to run away.
She became “Sojourner Truth” of the Underground Railroad—the fearless
agent who time after time returned to the Deep South to organize bands
of slaves and lead them out.</p>

<p>In Boston and Albany and New York they clamored to see and hear
Douglass. And in clubs and offices and behind store-fronts they
muttered angry words.</p>

<p>During the first week in August the Anti-Slavery Society held a
three-day convention in Morristown, Pennsylvania, with hundreds of
people coming by train from Philadelphia. Lucretia Mott, the foremost
woman Abolitionist of her day, fired the crowd with enthusiasm.
Douglass did not arrive until the second day. His name was on
everyone’s lips, the trainmen craned their necks to see him, and he was
pointed out wherever he went.</p>

<p>The evening of the closing day of the convention, Garrison and Douglass
were to speak together at a church. It was packed when they arrived.
Garrison spoke first. All went well until Douglass rose, when there
came a sound of breaking glass and large stones flew through the
windows. The men in the audience rushed out. There was the sound of
shouting and running outside. The rowdies fled, and in a short while
the meeting continued.</p>

<p>In Philadelphia there were a large number of educated and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> extremely
active Negro Abolitionists. Douglass was particularly happy to spend
some time with them, and they were eager to heed and honor him. William
Grant Still, secretary of the Philadelphia Vigilance Committee, saw to
it that they met Douglass.</p>

<p>On Saturday morning Garrison and Douglass said goodbye to their friends
and hurried to the station. At the last moment Garrison recalled an
errand.</p>

<p>“Go ahead and get the tickets, Douglass,” he said. “I’ll be along in
time.”</p>

<p>Douglass complied with his request, but Garrison had not arrived when
the train pulled in. Douglass boarded one of the last cars and, sitting
down close to a window, watched rather anxiously for his traveling
companion.</p>

<p>He did not notice the man who came up to the seat until he heard: “You
there! Get out of that seat!”</p>

<p>It came like the old-remembered sting of a whip. He had not heard that
tone for so long. He looked up. The speaker was a big man. He had
evidently been drinking. His face was flushed.</p>

<p>“Get along up front where you belong!”</p>

<p>“I have a first-class ticket which entitles me to this seat,” Douglass
said quietly. The muscles along his back were tightening.</p>

<p>“Why, you impudent darky!”</p>

<p>“Oh, John, please!”</p>

<p>Then Douglass saw that behind the man and, until that moment hidden
by him, was a little woman, the thin, gray strands of her hair partly
concealed by a poke bonnet, her blue eyes now wide with alarm.</p>

<p>“Oh,” said Douglass, rising, “excuse me, madam. Would you like my seat?”</p>

<p>The bully’s mouth dropped open. For a moment the unexpected words
struck him dumb.</p>

<p>“Why—why—I—” the woman stammered.</p>

<p>“Shut up!” The man had recovered his breath. “Don’t talk to that
nigger. I’ll knock his teeth down his black throat if he says another
word.”</p>

<p>Frederick smiled at the woman.</p>

<p>“As I said, I have my ticket. But there are plenty of seats. I’ll
gladly vacate this one for a lady.”</p>

<p>He moved quickly, catching his assailant’s blow with a swing of his
arm, and brushed past before the man could recover himself. Douglass
went on down the aisle. Behind him the man cursed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p>

<p>“Oh, please, John!” the little lady protested.</p>

<p>Out on the platform, Douglass walked into Garrison. They hurried into
another car and the train moved off.</p>

<p>“We’ll report the man when we reach the station,” said Garrison.</p>

<p>Douglass shrugged his shoulders. “He was drunk!” was his only comment.</p>

<p>The train pulled into Harrisburg about three o’clock in the afternoon.
At the depot they found Dr. Rutherford, long-time subscriber to the
<cite>Liberator</cite>, his sister-in-law, Agnes Crane, and several colored
people awaiting them. One of the latter, a Mr. Wolf, proudly bore off
Frederick Douglass to his home, while Dr. Rutherford took Mr. Garrison
in tow.</p>

<p>Harrisburg, capital of Pennsylvania, was very much under the influence
of slavery. The little group of Abolitionists had struggled valiantly
against odds. They had obtained the Court House for the Saturday
and Sunday evening presentations of their two speakers. Heretofore,
antislavery lecturers had drawn only a few anxious listeners. This
Saturday evening the Court House was filled to overflowing, and crowds
had gathered in the street in front of the building.</p>

<p>Mischief was brewing. Outside, mounted horsemen mingled with the crowd,
and inside the hall seethed with tense expectancy.</p>

<p>The chairman for the evening rose and introduced Mr. Garrison first. He
spoke briefly, merely to open the meeting. Everybody knew that whatever
happened would be aimed at Douglass. The dark speaker came forward, and
someone in the back yelled, “Sit down, nigger!”</p>

<p>It was the signal. Through the windows came hurtling stones, bricks and
pieces of Harrisburg pottery. From the back of the hall people threw
stones and rotten eggs, ripe tomatoes and other missiles. Several men
armed with clubs leaped for the platform.</p>

<p>The hall had become a bedlam: shrieks, shattering glass, and shouts of
“Out with the damned nigger!” “Kill him!” “Break his head!” Douglass,
recalling the mob in Indiana, seized a chair and laid about him with
a will. A flying stone struck him just above the eye, and a brickbat
grazed his head; but no one could get near him. It turned into a
free-for-all. Garrison from his place on the platform thundered
denunciations and rallied the people to their own defense. Gradually,
they routed the disturbers and peace was restored.</p>

<p>One might suppose that the exhausted audience would have called<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> it
quits. But not so with this crowd which had come out to hear Frederick
Douglass. Scratches and wounds and broken heads were hurriedly tended;
cold cloths were applied. And finally, holding a damp handkerchief to
his head to stay the flow of blood, Douglass told his story. Far down
the street the would-be “nigger killers” heard the cheers.</p>

<p>Sunday morning and afternoon they spoke at Negro churches. White people
attended both times, and the meetings were unmolested. The Sunday
evening crowd at the Court House was doubled. There was no trouble.</p>

<p>“Always heared tell them nigger-loving Abolitionists was
chicken-hearted!” a man in a tavern complained morosely. “It’s a damn
lie!” He rubbed his aching head thoughtfully.</p>

<p>Monday morning they left for Pittsburgh, going by train as far as
Chambersburg, where they had to change to the stage. Here they were
told that there had been some mistake about the tickets. The one
Douglass held enabled him to go directly through on the two o’clock
stage, but Garrison would have to wait until eight in the evening.
Garrison told Douglas they would be expected and he might as well go
ahead.</p>

<p>The route over the Alleghenies was beautiful, but slow and difficult.
The stage was crowded, and it was a melting-hot day. When they drew up
at the taverns for meals, Douglass was not allowed to eat in the dining
room. He was told he might eat, if he stood outside. He preferred to go
hungry—for the better part of two days.</p>

<p>On arriving at Pittsburgh the stage was met by a committee of twenty
white and colored friends, with a brass band of colored men playing for
all they were worth! The stage was late. It pulled in at three o’clock
in the morning, but both committee and band had waited.</p>

<p>Douglass could not help relishing the consternation of his
fellow-travelers when, to the accompaniment of deafening blasts from
tuba and trumpet, he was literally lifted from the stage. How could
they have known that the quiet, dark man whom they had seen humiliated
and pushed aside, was a celebrity?</p>

<p>There was much about the dingy, smoke-covered city of Pittsburgh which
reminded Douglass and Garrison of manufacturing towns in England. These
people were down to bare necessities. They knew life and death could be
hard and violent. They wanted no part of slavery.</p>

<p>“No more slave states!” they shouted.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p>

<p>Their enthusiasm was in the English style. They expressed approval
without stint. At the close of the final meeting, they gave three
tremendous cheers—one for Garrison, one for Douglass, and one for the
local worker who had brought the speakers, A. K. Foster.</p>

<p>On Friday Garrison and Douglass took a steamer down the Ohio River.
They stopped off at New Brighton, a village of about eight hundred
people. They spoke in a barn, where, from barrels of flour piled on the
beams over their heads, specks sifted down, whitening their clothes.
They left aboard a canal boat, in the company of a young Negro named
Peck, a future graduate of Rush Medical College at Chicago.</p>

<p>The next stop was Youngstown, where they were the guests of a jovial
tavern keeper. He always took in Abolitionist lecturers free of charge.
There they spoke three times in a huge grove. By evening Douglass
was without voice. His throat was throbbing and he could not speak
above a whisper. Garrison carried on. New Lyme, Painesville, Munson,
Twinsburg—every town and hamlet on the way—in churches, halls, barns,
tents, in groves and on hillsides. Oberlin, which come next, was a
milestone for them both.</p>

<p>“You know that from the commencement of the Institution in Oberlin,”
Garrison wrote his wife, “I took a lively interest in its welfare,
particularly on account of its springing up in a wilderness, only
thirteen years since, through the indomitable and sublime spirit
of freedom by which the seceding students of Lane Seminary were
actuated....</p>

<p>“Oberlin has done much for the relief of the flying fugitives from the
Southern prison-house, multitudes of whom have found it a refuge from
their pursuers, and been fed, clad, sheltered, comforted, and kindly
assisted on their way out of this horrible land to Canada. It has also
promoted the cause of emancipation in various ways, and its church
refuses to be connected with any slaveholding or pro-slavery church by
religious fellowship....</p>

<p>“I think our visit was an important one.... Douglass and I have
been hospitably entertained by Hamilton Hill, the Treasurer of the
Institution, an English gentleman, who formerly resided in London,
and is well acquainted with George Thompson and other antislavery
friends.... Among others who called was Miss Lucy Stone, who has
just graduated, and who yesterday left for her home in Brookfield,
Massachusetts.... She is a very superior young woman, and has a soul as
free as air, and is preparing to go forth as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> a lecturer, particularly
in vindication of the rights of woman.... But I must throw down my pen,
as the carriage is at the door to take us to Richfield, where we are to
have a large meeting today under the Oberlin tent, which is capable of
holding four thousand persons.”<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p>

<p>It was Garrison who finally broke down.</p>

<p>Their first meeting in Cleveland was held in Advent Chapel. Hundreds
were turned away, and in the afternoon they moved out into a grove in
order to accommodate the crowd. It sprinkled occasionally during the
meeting, but no one seemed to mind. The next morning, however, Garrison
opened his eyes in pain. He closed them again and tried to move. He sat
up, dizzy and swaying. Douglass, seeing his face, rushed to his side.</p>

<p>The doctor ordered him to stay in bed for a few days. They were
scheduled to leave for Buffalo within the hour, and once more Garrison
urged Douglass to go on ahead.</p>

<p>“I’ll be along,” he said weakly.</p>

<p>Garrison did not join him at Buffalo. Douglass held the meetings
alone and it was the same at Waterloo and West Winfield. By the time
he reached Syracuse on September 24, Douglass had begun to worry.
There, however, he found word. Garrison had been very ill. He was now
recovering and would soon be in Buffalo. Somewhat relieved, Douglass
went on to Rochester, where he held large and enthusiastic meetings.</p>

<p>For a few days he visited with Gerrit Smith on his estate at Peterboro.
Only then did he realize how tired he was. The high-ceilinged, paneled
rooms of the fine old manor offered the perfect refuge from the rush
and noise and turmoil of the past weeks. Douglass stretched out in an
easy chair before an open fire and rested.</p>

<p>Something was bothering Douglass. Now that the cheering crowds were far
away he frowned. Gerrit Smith fingered a long-stemmed glass of sherry
and waited.</p>

<p>“They listened eagerly,” Douglass said at last, “they filled the halls
and afterward they cheered.” He stopped and Gerrit Smith nodded his
head.</p>

<p>“And what then?” Smith’s voice had asked the question in Douglass’ mind.</p>

<p>Douglass was silent a long moment. He spoke slowly.</p>

<p>“They did not need convincing. The people know that slavery is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> wrong.”
Again Smith nodded his head. Douglass frowned. “Is it that convictions
are not enough?”</p>

<p>Then Gerrit Smith leaned forward.</p>

<p>“Convictions are the final end we seek,” he said. “But even you
dare not pit your convictions against the slaveholder’s property.
Slaveholders are not concerned or bothered about cheering crowds north
of the Ohio river. They can laugh at them! But they will not laugh long
if the cheering crowds go marching to the ballot box. Convictions need
votes to back them up!”</p>

<p>The shadows in the room deepened. For a long time there was only
silence.</p>

<p>“There’s a man in Springfield you ought to know,” Gerrit Smith spoke
quietly. “His name is John Brown.”</p>

<p>And so Douglass first heard of John Brown, in whose plans he would be
involved for many years to come.</p>

<p>Upon the establishment of Oberlin College in 1839, Gerrit Smith had
given the school a large tract of land in Virginia. The small group in
Ohio hardly knew what to do with his gift until, in 1840, young John
Brown, son of one of the Oberlin trustees, wrote proposing to survey
the lands for a nominal price if he could buy some of it himself and
establish his family there.</p>

<p>“He said,” continued Smith, “that he planned to set up there a school
for both the Negroes and poor whites of the region.”</p>

<p>Titles to the Virginia lands were not clear because squatters were in
possession, and the Oberlin trustees welcomed Brown’s plan. Thus John
Brown first saw Virginia and looked over the rich and heavy lands which
roll westward to the misty Blue Ridge. The Oberlin lands lay about two
hundred miles west of Harper’s Ferry in the foothills and along the
valley of the Ohio.</p>

<p>“He wrote that he liked the country as well as he had expected and its
inhabitants even better,” Smith chuckled.</p>

<p>By the summer of 1840 the job was done, and Brown had picked out his
ground. It was good hill land on the right branch of a valuable spring,
with a growth of good timber and a sugar orchard. In August the Oberlin
trustees voted “that the Prudential Committee be authorized to perfect
negotiations and convey by deed to Brother John Brown of Hudson, one
thousand acres of our Virginia land on the conditions suggested in
the correspondence which has already transpired between him and the
Committee.”<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p>

<p>“But then”—Gerrit Smith’s voice took on new urgency—“all negotiations
stopped. The panic overthrew everybody’s calculations. Brown’s wool
business collapsed, and two years later he was bankrupt. He had
endorsed notes for a friend, and they sent him to jail. Then he entered
into partnership with a man named Perkins, with a view to carrying on
the sheep business extensively. Perkins was to furnish all the feed and
shelter for wintering, and Brown was to take care of the flock.” Smith
was silent for a few minutes, puffing on his pipe. “I think he loved
being a shepherd. Anyway, during those long, solitary days and nights
he developed a plan for furnishing cheap wool direct to consumers.</p>

<p>“He has a large store now in Springfield, Massachusetts. They say his
bales are firm, round, hard and true, almost as if they had been turned
out in a lathe. But the New England manufacturers are boycotting him.
He’s not playing according to the rules and he’s being squeezed out.
The truth of the matter is that John Brown has his own set of rules. He
says he has a mission to perform.” There was another long silence. Then
Gerrit Smith spoke and his voice was sad. “I wish I had it in my power
to give him that tract of land protected by the Blue Ridge Mountains. I
think that land lies at the core of all his planning.”</p>

<p>Gerrit Smith was right. John Brown had a plan. One thing alone
reconciled him to his Springfield sojourn and that was the Negroes whom
he met there. He had met black men singly here and there before. He was
consumed with an intense hatred of slavery, and in Springfield he found
a group of Negroes working manfully for full freedom. It was a small
body without conspicuous leadership. On that account it more nearly
approximated the great mass of their enslaved race. Brown sought them
in home, in church and on the street; he hired them in his business.
While Garrison and Douglass were touring Ohio, John Brown was saying to
his black porter and friend, “Come early in the morning so that we’ll
have time to talk.”</p>

<p>And so before the store was swept or the windows wiped, they carefully
reviewed their plans for the “Subterranean Pass Way.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Amelia and Mrs. Royall did not make the trip north. Amelia’s
disappointment was tempered because she knew Frederick Douglass was
somewhere out West. Jack Haley laughed and said that was the reason
the old lady did not go. But Anne Royall said no newspaper woman could
leave Washington when news was fairly bristling in the air.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p>

<p>That last was true. Had not the South fought and paid for the gold
fields of California? Now the scratch of President Polk’s pen as
he signed the treaty with Mexico reverberated through the halls of
Congress. Tempers were short.</p>

<p>“And manners have been tossed out the window,” said Anne Royall.</p>

<p>Then Jefferson Davis was sent up from Mississippi. Mrs. Royall was
immediately intrigued by the tall, handsome war hero.</p>

<p>“Careful, Mrs. Royall!” warned Jack Haley, shaking his finger.</p>

<p>“Attend your own affairs, young man,” snapped the old lady. “Jefferson
Davis brings charm into this nest of cawing crows!”</p>

<p>Foreign consulates were rocking, too. Ambassadors dared not talk. For
this was a year of change—kings being overthrown; Garibaldi, Mazzini,
Kossuth emerging as heroes. Freedom had become an explosive word—to be
handled with care. They smashed the windows of the <cite>National Era</cite>
office and talked of running Gamaliel Bailey out of town. But it was
difficult to call out a mob within sight of the Capitol building. And
Gamaliel Bailey—facing his critics with that dazzling, supercilious,
knowing smile of his—sent them away gnashing their teeth but helpless.</p>

<p>The time had come for action. Oratory was not enough. Convictions,
however sound and pure, were not enough. Time was running out.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass wrote a letter to John Brown in Springfield,
Massachusetts. Douglass told the wool merchant of his recent visit with
Gerrit Smith.</p>

<p>“I’d like to talk with you,” he wrote. And John Brown answered, “Come.”</p>

<p>Of that first visit with John Brown, Douglass says:</p>

<p>“At the time to which I now refer this man was a respectable merchant
in a populous and thriving city, and our first meeting was at his
store. This was a substantial brick building on a prominent, busy
street. A glance at the interior, as well as at the massive walls
without, gave me the impression that the owner must be a man of
considerable wealth. My welcome was all that I could have asked. Every
member of the family, young and old, seemed glad to see me, and I was
made much at home in a very little while. I was, however, surprised
with the appearance of the house and its location. After seeing the
fine store I was prepared to see a fine residence in an eligible
locality.... In fact, the house was neither commodious nor elegant,
nor its situation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> desirable. It was a small wooden building on a
back street, in a neighborhood chiefly occupied by laboring men and
mechanics. Respectable enough, to be sure, but not quite the place
where one would look for the residence of a flourishing and successful
merchant. Plain as was the outside of this man’s house, the inside was
plainer. Its furniture would have satisfied a Spartan. It would take
longer to tell what was not in this house than what was in it. There
was an air of plainness about it which almost suggested destitution.</p>

<p>“My first meal passed under the misnomer of tea.... It consisted of
beef-soup, cabbage, and potatoes—a meal such as a man might relish
after following the plow all day or performing a forced march of a
dozen miles over a rough road in frosty weather. Innocent of paint,
veneering, varnish, or table-cloth, the table announced itself
unmistakably of pine and of the plainest workmanship. There was no
hired help visible. The mother, daughters, and sons did the serving,
and did it well. They were evidently used to it, and had no thought of
any impropriety or degradation in being their own servants. It is said
that a house in some measure reflects the character of its occupants;
this one certainly did. In it there were no disguises, no illusions, no
make-believes. Everything implied stern truth, solid purpose, and rigid
economy. I was not long in company with the master of this house before
I discovered that he was indeed the master of it, and was likely to
become mine too if I stayed long enough with him....</p>

<p>“In person he was lean, strong and sinewy, of the best New England
mold, built for times of trouble and fitted to grapple with the
flintiest hardships. Clad in plain American woolen, shod in boots of
cowhide leather, and wearing a cravat of the same substantial material,
under six feet high, less than one hundred and fifty pounds in weight,
aged about fifty, he presented a figure straight and symmetrical as
a mountain pine. His bearing was singularly impressive. His head was
not large, but compact and high. His hair was coarse, strong, slightly
gray and closely trimmed, and grew low on his forehead. His face
was smoothly shaved, and revealed a strong, square mouth, supported
by a broad and prominent chin. His eyes were bluish-gray, and in
conversation they were full of light and fire. When on the street, he
moved with a long, springing, race-horse step, absorbed by his own
reflections, neither seeking nor shunning observation.</p>

<p>“After the strong meal already described, Captain Brown cautiously<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>
approached the subject which he wished to bring to my attention; for he
seemed to apprehend opposition to his views. He denounced slavery in
look and language fierce and bitter, thought that slaveholders had
forfeited their right to live, that the slaves had the right to gain
their liberty in any way they could, did not believe that moral suasion
would ever liberate the slave, or that political action would abolish
the system.</p>

<p>“He said that he had long had a plan which could accomplish this end,
and he had invited me to his house to lay that plan before me. He had
observed my course at home and abroad and he wanted my co-operation.
His plan as it then lay in his mind had much to commend it. It did not,
as some suppose, contemplate a general rising among the slaves, and a
general slaughter of the slave-masters. An insurrection, he thought,
would only defeat the object; but his plan did contemplate the creating
of an armed force which should act in the very heart of the South. He
was not averse to the shedding of blood, and thought the practice of
carrying arms would be a good one for the colored people to adopt, as
it would give them a sense of manhood. No people, he said, could have
self-respect, or be respected, who would not fight for their freedom.
He called my attention to a map of the United States, and pointed out
to me the far-reaching Alleghenies, which stretch away from the borders
of New York into the Southern states. ‘These mountains,’ he said,
‘are the basis of my plan. God has given the strength of the hills to
freedom; they were placed there for the emancipation of the Negro race;
they are full of natural forts, where one man for defense will be equal
to a hundred for attack; they are full also of good hiding-places,
where large numbers of brave men could be concealed, and baffle and
elude pursuit for a long time. I know these mountains well, and could
take a body of men into them and keep them there despite of all the
efforts of Virginia to dislodge them. The true object to be sought is
first of all to destroy the money value of slave property; and that can
only be done by rendering such property insecure. My plan, then, is to
take at first about twenty-five picked men, and begin on a small scale;
supply them with arms and ammunition and post them in squads of five on
a line of twenty-five miles. The most persuasive and judicious of these
shall go down to the fields from time to time, as opportunity offers,
and induce the slaves to join them, seeking and selecting the most
restless and daring.’</p>

<p>“When I asked him how he would support these men, he said<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> emphatically
that he would subsist them upon the enemy. Slavery was a state of war,
and the slave had a right to anything necessary to his freedom.... ‘But
you might be surrounded and cut off from your provisions or means of
subsistence.’ He thought this could not be done so they could not cut
their way out; but even if the worst came he could but be killed, and
he had no better use for his life than to lay it down in the cause of
the slave. When I suggested that we might convert the slaveholders, he
became much excited, and said that could never be. He knew their proud
hearts, and they would never be induced to give up their slaves, until
they felt a big stick about their heads.</p>

<p>“He observed that I might have noticed the simple manner in which he
lived, adding that he had adopted this method in order to save money to
carry out his purpose. This was said in no boastful tone, for he felt
that he had delayed already too long, and had no room to boast either
his zeal or his self-denial. Had some men made such display of rigid
virtue, I should have rejected it as affected, false and hypocritical;
but in John Brown, I felt it to be real as iron or granite. From this
night spent with John Brown in Springfield in 1847, while I continued
to write and speak against slavery, I became all the same less hopeful
of its peaceful abolition.”<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p>

<p>Soon after this visit with John Brown, Frederick Douglass decided on a
definite step. He would move to Rochester, New York, and there he would
set up his contemplated newspaper.</p>

<p>He had been dissuaded from starting a newspaper by two things. First,
as soon as he returned from England he had been called upon to exercise
to the fullest extent all his abilities as a speaker. Friends told him
that in this field he could render the best and most needed service.
They had discouraged the idea of his becoming an editor. Such an
undertaking took training and experience. Douglass, always quick to
acknowledge his own deficiencies, began to think his project far too
ambitious.</p>

<p>Second, William Lloyd Garrison needed whatever newspaper gifts Douglass
had for the <cite>Liberator</cite>. Garrison felt that a second antislavery
paper in the same region was not needed. He pointed out that the way
of the <cite>Liberator</cite> was hard enough as it was. He did not think of
Douglass as a rival. But, quite frankly, he wanted the younger man to
remain under his wing. There was nothing more selfish here than what a
father might feel for his own son.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span></p>

<p>But Douglass was no longer a fledgling. The time had come for him to
strike out for himself.</p>

<p>Rochester was a young, new city. It was ideally located in the Genesee
valley, where the Genesee River flowed into Lake Ontario; it was a
terminus of the Erie Canal. Here was an ideal set-up for getting slaves
safely across into Canada! Day and night action—more action—was
what Douglass wanted now. There was already an intelligent and highly
respected group of Abolitionists in Rochester. It was composed of both
Negroes and whites. They would, he knew, gather round him. He would
not be working alone. In western New York his paper would in no way
interfere with the circulation of the <cite>Liberator</cite>.</p>

<p>And so on December 3, 1847, appeared in Rochester, New York, a new
paper—the <cite>North Star</cite>. Its editor was Frederick Douglass, its
assistant editor Martin R. Delaney, and its object “to attack slavery
in all its forms and aspects; advance Universal Emancipation; exact
the standard of public morality, promote the moral and intellectual
improvement of the colored people; and to hasten the day of freedom to
our three million enslaved fellow-countrymen.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“Politics is an evil thing—it is not for us. We address ourselves to
men’s conscience!” Garrison had often said. But Frederick Douglass went
into politics.</p>

<p>The Free Soil party, formed in 1848, did not become a positive
political force under that name. But, assembling in August as the
election of 1852 drew near, it borrowed the name of “Free Democracy”
from the Cleveland Convention of May 2, 1849, and drew to itself
both Free Soilers and the remnants of the independent Liberty party.
Frederick Douglass, on motion of Lewis Tappan, was made one of the
secretaries. The platform declared for “no more slave states, no slave
territory, no nationalized slavery, and no national legislation for the
extradition of slaves.”</p>

<p>The most aggressive speech of the convention was made by Frederick
Douglass, who was for exterminating slavery everywhere. The lion had
held himself in rein for some time. The duties of editor and printer of
his paper had chained him to his desk. He had built onto his house to
make room for the fugitive slaves who now came in a steady stream to
Rochester, directed to “Douglass,” agent of the Underground Railroad,
who handled the difficult and dangerous job of getting the runaway
slaves into Canada.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p>

<p>Douglass was still a young man, yet that night as he stood with the
long, heavy bush of crinkly hair flowing back from his head like a
mane—thick, full beard and flashing eyes—there was about him a
timeless quality, embracing a long sweep of years, decades of suffering
and much accumulated wisdom.</p>

<p>“Americans! Your republican politics, not less than your republican
religion, are flagrantly inconsistent. You boast of your love of
liberty, your superior civilization, and your pure Christianity, while
the whole political power of the nation (as embodied in the two great
political parties) is solemnly pledged to support and perpetuate
the enslavement of three million of your countrymen. You hurl your
anathemas at the crowned headed tyrants of Russia and Austria and
pride yourselves on your democratic institutions, while you yourselves
consent to be the mere tools and bodyguards of the tyrants of Virginia
and Carolina. You invite to your shores fugitives of oppression
from abroad ... and pour out your money to them like water; but the
fugitives from your own land you advertise, hunt, arrest, shoot and
kill.... You shed tears over fallen Hungary, and make the sad story
of her wrongs the theme of your poets, statesmen and orators.... Your
gallant sons are ready to fly to arms to vindicate her cause against
the oppressor; but, in regard to the ten thousand wrongs of the
American slave, you would enforce the strictest silence.... You are all
on fire at the mention of liberty for France or for Ireland; but are
as cold as an iceberg at the thought of liberty for the enslaved of
America!”</p>

<p>The people went out along the streets of Pittsburgh repeating his
words. The convention delegates scattered to their states.</p>

<p>And out in Illinois a homely state legislator named Abraham Lincoln was
saying that it is “the sacred right of the people ... to rise up and
shake off the existing government, and form a new one that suits them
better.... It is the quality of revolutions not to go by old lines or
old laws, but to break up both and make new ones.”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="Part_III">Part III</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>THE STORM</i><br>
</p>


<div class="blockquot">

<p>When the measure of their tears shall be full—when their groans shall
have involved heaven itself in darkness—doubtless a God of justice
will awaken to their distress, and by his exterminating thunder
manifest his attention to the things of this world, and that they are
not left to the guidance of a blind fatality.</p>

<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">Thomas Jefferson</span><br>
</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Eleven"><span class="smcap">Chapter Eleven</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>The storm came up in the West and birds flew North</i><br>
</p>


<p>There never had been such a time for cotton. All over the South the
cotton foamed in great white flakes under the sun. Black workers
staggered beneath its weight. Up and down the roads straining mules
pulled wagons loaded with bubbling masses of whiteness. The gins spat
flames and smoke; the presses creaked and groaned, as closer and closer
they packed the quivering mass until, dead and still, it lay in hard,
square bundles on river wharves, beside steel rails and on rotting
piers. Shiploads were on their way to the hungry looms of England and
the crawling harbors of China. Prosperity lay like a fragrant mist upon
the Southland in 1854.</p>

<p>William Freeland rode over his acres with satisfaction. True, they
had diminished in number; but if cotton prices continued to rise, the
master of Freelands could see years of ease stretching ahead. Since
his mother’s death Freeland had left the running of the plantation
pretty much to hired overseers. He had not interfered. He spent a lot
of time in Baltimore, Washington and Richmond. With his dark brooding
face and wavy, gray-streaked hair, the master of Freelands enjoyed much
popularity with the ladies. He remained a bachelor.</p>

<p>It was Sunday morning, and the slight chill in the air was stimulating.
Dead leaves rustled beneath his horse’s hoofs as he pulled up just
inside the wrought-iron gates, where the graveled drive was guarded
by the old sycamore. Time was beginning to tell on the big house far
up the drive, but it still stood firm and substantial, though the Old
Missus no longer tapped her cane through its halls. William Freeland
sighed. He wished his mother had lived to see the last two good years
at Freelands. For things falling to piece had made her unhappy. “A
strong hand was lacking,” she said. The Mistress had grieved when old
Caleb died and Aunt Lou, crippled with rheumatism<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> and wheezing with
asthma had to be sent away to a cabin at the edge of the fields. Henry
had taken Caleb’s place, of course. But in this, she had acknowledged,
her son had been right: Henry was stupid and incompetent. It was
evident he would never master the job of being a good butler. On the
other hand she used to remind William of the “bad-blood rascal” he had
brought in to plant wicked seeds of rebellion at Freelands. Grumbling
and sullen faces multiplied. In the old days, she had said, Freeland
slaves never tried to run away.</p>

<p>The overseers came, had tightened up on things. The last runaway had
been a young filly with her baby. The dogs had caught her down by
the river and torn her to pieces. Freeland had gone away for a while
afterward.</p>

<p>He went on up the drive slowly, chuckling when he spied the queer
figure bent double under the hedge, scooping at the dirt with his
bare hands. The inevitable butterfly net and mesh bag lay close by
on the ground, though everybody knew that fall was no time to chase
butterflies. William Freeland shook his head. What some men did to get
famous! For that funny little figure under his hedge was Dr. Alexander
Ross, entomologist, ornithologist, and ichthyologist, whose discoveries
of rare specimen of bugs were spread out on beautifully colored plates
in expensive books! He had met the scientist at the home of Colonel
Drake in Richmond. The daughter of the house, who had been sent
North to school, had simply babbled about him. She had displayed an
autographed copy of one of those books, as if it were worth its weight
in gold. When the funny little man had murmured he might be able to
find a <i>Croton Alabameses</i> on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the
master of Freelands had invited him to his plantation where, he had
said with a laugh, there were sure to be some very rare bugs indeed.
Later Freeland learned that a <i>Croton Alabameses</i> was not a bug,
but a plant. It was the first evening when they were sitting on the
veranda, and Dr. Ross had remarked on the charm of the old garden with
its sweeping mosses, overgrown walks and thick hedges.</p>

<p>“It is lovely!” The little man had screwed up his eyes behind his thick
glasses and blinked with delight.</p>

<p>After that he had been up before dawn and out all day, net and bag in
hand. He tramped great distances through woods and river mud. He talked
with the slaves, who, his host was certain, thought the little man was
crazy. Freeland thought it well to warn him about lonely, unused lanes
and river lowlands.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p>

<p>“Time was,” he added, “when I’d never think of cautioning a visitor
at Freelands. Crime used to be unknown in these parts. But now there
are many bad blacks about. It’s dangerous!” The little man was not
listening. He was measuring the wing spread of a moth. Freeland became
more insistent.</p>

<p>“Just a few weeks ago,” he said, “a poor farmer named Covey was found
in his own back yard with his head crushed in. Most of the slaves were
caught before they got away, but the authorities are still looking for
his housekeeper, whom they really suspect of the crime. It’s horrible!”</p>

<p>The scientist was frowning, a puzzled expression on his round face.</p>

<p>“But why—Why should they think his housekeeper did this awful thing?”</p>

<p>William Freeland shrugged his shoulders. “It seems a dealer in the
village told how this woman carried on like mad when Covey sold some
girl off the place. I don’t know the details. But the man says he heard
the woman say she’d kill her master.”</p>

<p>“Tck! Tck!” The little man shook his head.</p>

<p>“So you see, Doctor,” continued his host, judiciously, “that woman is
at large and <i>you’d</i> never be able to cope with her.”</p>

<p>“Why, is she in the neighborhood?” Now Dr. Ross seemed interested.</p>

<p>“It would be very hard for her to get through the cordon they’ve laid
around that neck of land. In your long tramps you might easily wander
into the section without knowing it. So I wouldn’t get too far off the
place if I were you.”</p>

<p>The little man nodded his head. Next evening, however, he did not
return to the house until long after dark. He was bespattered with mud.
He said he had stumbled and lost his specimens for the day. The mesh
bag hung limp at his side.</p>

<p>But no harm had befallen him. There he was, looking like one of his own
bugs, under the hedge. William Freeland swung off his horse and went
into the house.</p>

<p>“Tell the Doctor breakfast is ready,” he said to Henry, who came
forward.</p>

<p>“Dat dirty old man!” grumbled Henry, as he shuffled away on his errand.
The master had to laugh.</p>

<p>No yellow canary sang in the alcove, but breakfast hour in the
high-ceiled, paneled room passed very pleasantly. In the rare
intervals<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> when Dr. Ross was not squinting through his microscope or
chasing through the woods, he was an interesting talker. This morning
he compared the plant and insect life of this section of the Eastern
Shore to a little strip of land in southern France on the Mediterranean.</p>

<p>“Nature has scattered her bounties lavishly here in the South,” he
said. And because it was a happy subject William Freeland began to tell
the scientist about cotton.</p>

<p>“The new state of Texas added thousands of acres. They’re starting to
raise cotton in California, and now,” his voice showed excitement,
“they find cotton can be raised in the Nebraska Territory.”</p>

<p>“A marvelous plant!” Dr. Ross was really interested.</p>

<p>A shadow crossed Freeland’s face.</p>

<p>“There is just one drawback. There aren’t enough slaves to raise cotton
on all this land. The Yankees fear our cotton. They know that, if they
let us alone, cotton will become the deciding factor throughout the
country. Because they have no cotton lands, they try to throttle us.
They tie our hands by trying to limit slavery. They know that cotton
and slavery expand together.”</p>

<p>“But if slavery becomes illegal—as it did in Great Britain—in
the West Indies?” The little man leaned forward. William smiled
indulgently. He took a long draw on his pipe before answering.</p>

<p>“The United States is only a federation of states—nothing more. Where
slavery was not needed it was abolished. But we need slaves here in
the South, now more than ever. So”—and he waved his pipe—“we’ll keep
them!”</p>

<p>“I’m reversing my schedule today,” Dr. Ross said as they rose from the
table. “This afternoon I shall take a nap, because tonight I’m going
out after <i>Lepidoptera</i>. I saw signs of him down by the creek
yesterday, but they only fly after dark. I may be out all night.”</p>

<p>His host frowned.</p>

<p>“I’d better send one of the boys with you.” The little man shook his
head.</p>

<p>“No need at all, sir. I doubt if I go off your grounds. I’ll trap one
down in the bottoms below the meadow.”</p>

<p>William Freeland thought about the doctor that night when he went to
bed—out chasing moths in the dark. Freeland took another sip of brandy
before he put out his light.</p>

<p>Nine young men met Alexander Ross that night in the woods. To all of
them, through devious channels, had come the word that “riders” on the
Underground Railroad could be accommodated.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p>

<p>Dr. Ross sorted them into three groups and gave each one a set of
directions. At such and such a place in the woods, the first trio
would find a man waiting. Half a mile up the river bank, the second
contingent were to look for an empty skiff tied to a willow: it wasn’t
empty. The others had a wagon waiting for them on a nearby back road.</p>

<p>They had come supplied with as much food as they could conveniently
carry. Ross handed each slave a few dollars, a pocket compass, a knife
and pistol.</p>

<p>Then they scattered. Ross went a few miles with the group heading
inland through the woods and then doubled back toward Freelands. He
even caught a rare moth, which he carefully placed in his mesh bag.</p>

<p>A few days later the quiet little scientist shook hands with his host
and took his departure.</p>

<p>Such was Alexander Ross before he was knighted by several kings for
his scientific discoveries and honored by the French Academy. Wherever
he went in Virginia, Maryland, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama or
Mississippi, he talked of birds and plants. Equipped with shotgun and
preservatives, he roamed nonchalantly into field and wood. The slave
disappearances were never related to him.</p>

<p>Along the Underground Railroad they called him “the Birdman.” Through
him, Jeb, the boy Frederick had left behind in Baltimore, got away
to freedom. And there were others along the Eastern Shore to whom
Frederick had said, “I’ll not be forgetting!” Douglass sent Alexander
Ross back along the way he had come and made good his promises.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Cotton and slavery—by 1854 the two words became synonymous. The Cotton
Empire was straining its borders. More land was needed for the “silver
fleece,” and slaves must break the land and plant the seed and pick the
delicate soft pods. There was no other way.</p>

<p>Then a shrewd bidder for the presidency made an offer to the
South—western territory for their votes—and they sprang at the bribe.
Passage of the Nebraska Bill stacked the ammunition for civil war
dangerously high.</p>

<p>This scrapping of the Missouri Compromise struck antislavery men all
in a heap. The line against slavery had been so clear—no slaves above
the line. It should have run to the Pacific, stretching west with the
course of empire. But now, by means of the clever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> wording of the
Nebraska (Territory) Bill—“to leave the people ... free to form and
regulate their domestic institutions in their own way”—a vast tract
embracing upward of four hundred thousand square miles was being thrown
open to slavery. Stephen Douglas drove the Bill through Congress. It
was his moment of triumph.</p>

<p>The North reacted. Harriet Beecher Stowe led eleven hundred women
marching through the streets in protest. Great mass meetings assembled.
They hanged Stephen Douglas in effigy. State legislatures met in
special sessions and sent manifests to Congress. William Lloyd
Garrison, Frederick Douglass, Wendell Phillips, Henry Highland Garnet,
and Henry Ward Beecher raised their voices like mighty trumpets; they
filled the air with oratory.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The five sons of John Brown set out for Kansas.</p>

<p>They were among the less important people who saw that if “the domestic
institutions” were to be left to those who lived there to decide, it
was going to be necessary for antislavery men to settle on the land.
The brothers’ combined property consisted of eleven head of cattle and
three horses. Ten of this number were fine breeds. Thinking of their
value in a new country, Owen, Frederick and Salmon took them by way of
the Lakes to Chicago and thence to Meridosia where they were wintered.
When spring came, they drove them into Kansas to a place about eight
miles west of the town of Osawatomie, which the brothers had selected
as a likely spot to settle.</p>

<p>Seven hundred and fifty men set out that summer under the auspices of
the Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Society. Some traveled by wagon over
lonely trails. Others sailed down the Ohio River, their farm implements
lashed to the decks of the boats.</p>

<p>They found a lovely land—wide open spaces, rolling prairies and wooded
streams under a great blue dome. They set up their tents and went about
breaking soil. They dreamed of cattle herds, waving fields of corn and
wheat, orchards and vineyards. There was so much of the good, rich
earth in Kansas.</p>

<p>Election Day—when members for the first territorial legislature were
chosen—came on March 30, 1855. Horace Greeley himself went out to
Kansas to cover the election for his paper, the <cite>New York Tribune</cite>.</p>

<p>Slaveholders poured into the territory from Missouri by the thousands
and took over the polls.</p>

<p>“On the evening before and the day of the election,” Greeley<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> wrote,
“nearly a thousand Missourians arrived in Lawrence in wagons and on
horseback, well armed with rifles, pistols and bowie-knives.” According
to his account, they made no pretense of legality, one contingent
bringing up two pieces of cannon loaded with musket balls. It was the
same everywhere in the territory: the invaders elected all the members
of the legislature, with a single exception in either house. These
were two Free Soilers from a remote district which the Missourians
overlooked. “Although only 831 legal electors in the territory voted,
there were no less than 6,320 votes polled.”</p>

<p>The people of Kansas repudiated this election and refused to obey the
laws passed. Ruffians were called in “to aid in enforcing laws.” Then
it was that the sons of John Brown wrote their father asking him to
procure and send them arms and ammunition to defend themselves and
their neighbors.</p>

<p>John Brown had given up his store in Springfield, Massachusetts, and
moved to a small farm in the hills of North Elba, New York. Just before
the trek West, he had written his son John: “If you or any of my family
are disposed to go to Kansas or Nebraska with a view to help defeat
Satan and his legions in that direction, I have not a word to say; but
I feel committed to operate in another part of the field.”<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p>

<p>He had not heard from Kansas for many months, when he got the request
for arms.</p>

<p>John Brown held his sons’ letter in his hands. He went outside and
stood looking up at the Adirondacks, his hacked-out frame and wrinkled,
yellow face hard against the sky. Then he strode to the barn and
saddled his horse.</p>

<p>“I’m going to Rochester,” he told his wife. “I want to talk this over
with Douglass.”</p>

<p>She stood in the narrow door and watched him riding down the trail. He
did not look back. John Brown never looked back.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>In Rochester people had already begun pointing out Frederick Douglass’
house to strangers. Until Douglass came and moved his family into the
unpretentious two-story frame dwelling, Alexander Street had been
one of many shady side-streets in a quiet section of the city. The
dark-skinned new arrivals caused a lot of talk, but no open antagonism.</p>

<p>Famous folk from Boston and New York and Philadelphia began appearing
on Alexander Street. Somebody said he’d recognized<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> Horace Greeley,
editor of a newspaper in New York; and somebody else was sure he saw
the great preacher, Wendell Phillips. The neighbors grew accustomed
to seeing Mr. Daniel Anthony’s huge carryall drive up of a Sunday
afternoon and stop in front of the house, while all the Douglass family
piled in. Mr. Anthony’s big place with its rows of fruit trees was
several miles out in the country. Evidently that was where they went.
Then they talked about Mr. Anthony’s daughter, Susan B. Anthony. She
was pretty famous herself—what with going around the country and
getting her name in all the papers. Some of the men shook their heads
over this. But the women bit off the threads of their sewing cotton
with a snap and eyed each other significantly. They reminded their men
folks that the Woman’s State Temperance Convention had been a pretty
important affair.</p>

<p>“Temperance conventions is one thing,” said the men, “but this talk
about women voting is something else!”</p>

<p>Then one lady spoke up and said she’d heard their neighbor Frederick
Douglass make a speech about women voting. “And it was wonderful!” she
added.</p>

<p>“Seems like he’d have enough on his hands trying to free slaves!”
grumbled one man, snapping his suspenders.</p>

<p>Douglass did have a lot on his hands. The <cite>North Star</cite> was a
large sheet, published weekly, and it cost eighty dollars a week to
issue. Everybody rejoiced when the circulation hit three thousand.
There were many times when Douglass was hard pressed for money, and the
mechanical work of getting out the paper was arduous. The entire family
was drafted. Lewis and Frederick learned typesetting, and both boys
delivered papers. The two little fellows soon became a familiar sight
on Rochester streets, papers under their arms and school books strapped
to their backs.</p>

<p>But the paper was only part of Douglass’ work. One whole winter he
lectured evenings at Corinthian Hall. Other seasons he would take an
evening train to Victor, Farmington, Canandaigua, Geneva, Waterloo,
Buffalo, Syracuse or elsewhere. He would speak in some hall or church,
returning home the same night. In the morning Martin Delaney would find
him at his desk, writing or mailing papers.</p>

<p>Sleep in his house was an irregular business. At any hour of the day
or night Underground “passengers” arrived. They came sometimes in
carriages, with Quaker capes thrown about their shoulders; or they came
under loads of wheat or lumber or sacks of flour. Some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> of them rode in
boldly on the train, and more than once a packing-box arrived, marked
<i>Open with Care</i>.</p>

<p>Every agent of the Underground Railroad risked fine and imprisonment.
They realized they were bailing out the ocean with a teaspoon, yet the
joy of freeing one more slave was recompense enough. One time Douglass
had eleven fugitives under his roof. And there they had to remain until
Douglass could collect enough money to send them on to Canada. His wife
cooked numerous pots of food which quickly vanished. “Passengers” slept
in the attic and barn loft.</p>

<p>Many people in Rochester became involved. One evening after dark a
well-dressed, middle-aged man knocked at Douglass’ door and introduced
himself as the law partner of the United States commissioner of that
city. He would not sit down.</p>

<p>“I have come to tell you,” he said, “that an hour ago the owner of
three slaves who have escaped from Maryland was in our office. He says
he has traced them to Rochester. He has papers for their arrest, and he
is coming to your house!”</p>

<p>Douglass stared at the man in amazement. He had recognized his name as
that of a distinguished Democrat, perhaps the last person in Rochester
from whom he would have expected assistance. He tried to say something,
but the gentleman waved him aside.</p>

<p>“I bid you good evening, Mr. Douglass. There is not a moment to lose!”
And he disappeared down Alexander Street.</p>

<p>One of the fugitives was at that moment in the hayloft, the other
two were on the farm of Asa Anthony, just outside the city limits.
That night two black horses rode swiftly through the night. Then Asa
Anthony’s farm wagon rumbled down to the docks, and in the morning
the three young men were on the free waves of Lake Ontario, bound for
Canada.</p>

<p>Douglass and the <cite>North Star</cite> formed the pivot about which
revolved much of the work of other Negro Abolitionists, whom Douglass
now met for the first time. Henry Highland Garnet, well-educated
grandson of an African chief, had never been closely associated with
William Lloyd Garrison. From the first he had gravitated toward
political action. There were Dr. James McCune Smith, who had studied
medicine at Glasgow; James W. Pennington, with his degree from
Heidelberg; Henry Bibb, Charles L. Redmond, and Samuel Ringgold Ward,
Garnet’s cousin, who attracted Douglass in a very special manner. Ward
was very black and of magnificent physique.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> They were all older than
Douglass. But they strengthened his hand; and he, in his turn, was
proud of them.</p>

<p>Then in 1850 the Fugitive Slave Law was passed, and no Negro,
regardless of his education, ability, or means, was safe anywhere in
the United States. Douglass had his manumission papers. His freedom had
been bought. But Henry Highland Garnet and Samuel Ringgold Ward knew it
was best that they leave the country.</p>

<p>Until Ward died the two men traveled in Europe, where Henry Highland
Garnet came to be called the “Negro Tom Paine.” Douglass felt most
deeply the loss of Ringgold Ward, whom he considered vastly superior to
any of them, both as an orator and a thinker.</p>

<p>“In depth of thought,” he wrote, “fluency of speech, readiness of wit,
logical exactness, and general intelligence, Samuel Ringgold Ward has
left no successor among colored men amongst us.”</p>

<p>Meanwhile Douglass squared his shoulders and took on more
responsibility. He saw former slaves who had lived for years safely
and securely in western New York and elsewhere—who had worked hard,
saved money and acquired homes—now forced to flee to Canada. Many died
during the first harsh winter. Bishop Daniel A. Payne of the African
Methodist Episcopal Church consulted Douglass as to the advisability of
both of them fleeing.</p>

<p>“We are whipped, we are whipped,” moaned Payne, “and we might as well
retreat in order.”</p>

<p>Douglass shook his head. “We must stand!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was the spring of 1855, and never had the huge mills and factories
and tanneries of Rochester been busier. Great logs of Allegheny pine
rode down the Genesee River and lay in clean, shining tiers of lumber
in the yards. Up and down the Erie Canal went the flatboats, mules
straining at the heavy loads; and on the docks of Rochester Port the
goods lay piled waiting for lake steamers to go westward. Rochester
boasted that it was the most important station on the newly completed
New York Central Railroad.</p>

<p>The vigorous young city waxed fat. Sleek, trim “city fathers” began
considering the “cultural aspects” of their town. Rochester’s Gallery
of Fine Arts was established; plans were drawn up for an Academy of
Music. “Causes” became less popular than they had been. There were
those who gave an embarrassed laugh when Susan B. Anthony’s name came
up, and some wondered if so much antislavery agitation was good for
their city.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p>

<p>Slaveholders, vacationing in Saratoga Springs, dropped in on Rochester.
They admired its wide, clean streets and fine buildings, but they
shuddered at the sight of well-dressed Negroes in the streets. The
Southerners spent money freely and talked about new cotton mills; and
more than one wondered aloud why Frederick Douglass was allowed to
remain in such a fine city.</p>

<p>But the hardy, true strain of the people ran deep. When Frederick
Douglass was prevented from speaking in nearby Homer by a barrage of
missiles, Oren Carvath resigned as deacon of the Congregational Church,
sold his farm and moved to Oberlin. His son, Erastus, made Negro
education the work of his life and became the first president of Fisk
University.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>There was scarcely any moon the night Douglass rode his horse homeward
along Ridge Road. He had spoken in Genesee on the Nebraska Bill and
politics for Abolitionists.</p>

<p>He enjoyed these solitary rides. They cleared his brain. But tonight
he kept thinking about an angry letter he had received that day—a
letter in which the writer had accused Douglass of having deserted his
friend Garrison “in the time of his greatest need.” Douglass loved
William Lloyd Garrison and the complete unselfish sincerity of the New
Englander’s every utterance.</p>

<p>“If there is a <i>good</i> man walking on this earth today, that man is
Garrison!” Douglass spoke the words aloud and then he sighed.</p>

<p>For he knew that the <cite>North Star</cite> was diverging more and more from
Garrison’s <cite>Liberator</cite>. Douglass took a different stand on the
Constitution of the United States.</p>

<p>Garrison had come to consider the Constitution as a slaveholding
instrument. Now as the clashes were becoming more bitter in Boston and
New York, he was raising the slogan “No Union with Slaveholders.”</p>

<p>Douglass, with the Abolitionists in western New York, accepted the fact
that the Constitution of the United States was inaugurated to “form a
more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility,
provide for common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the
blessings of liberty.” They therefore repudiated the idea that it could
at the same time support human slavery. Douglass held the Constitution
as the surest warrant for the abolition of slavery in every state in
the Union. He urged the people to implement the Constitution through
political action.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p>

<p>And so the former teacher and pupil were being pushed farther and
farther apart. Douglass knew that Garrison’s health was poor. He
thought, <i>I must go to Boston, I must see him</i>. And then his mind
reverted to the low state of his funds. He rode along sunk in dejection.</p>

<p>He did not heed the horses’ hoofs beating the road until they came
close behind him. He looked back—three riders were just topping the
hill. They slowed up there and seemed to draw together. And suddenly
Douglass felt that familiar stiffening of his spine. At the moment
he was in the shadow of a grove; but just ahead the road lifted and
he would be completely exposed. He walked his horse. Perhaps he was
mistaken. They were coming forward at a slower pace and would most
certainly see him any moment now. As he left the shadow of the trees he
touched his horse and shot forward. He heard a shout and bent over as a
bullet whizzed by!</p>

<p>It was to be a chase, but they were armed and he could not outrun their
bullets. The road was a winding ribbon now, and he was gaining. He saw
a clump of trees ahead. Yes, there was a little lane. As he turned off
sharply, he felt a sear of pain across his head. He leaned forward and
let his horse find its own way through the trees. Once a low hanging
branch nearly swept him off, and several times the animal stumbled.
Then they came out into a field, and ahead on a slight knoll was a big
house. He could hear them behind him, and that open field meant more
exposure; but the house was his only hope. He thought of the unfinished
editorial lying on his desk.</p>

<p>“I’ve got to finish it!” he thought desperately, and gritted his teeth
to keep from fainting.</p>

<p>Horse and rider were panting when they pulled up at the steps of the
wide porch. No lights showed anywhere. Naturally, Douglass thought,
everybody was sound asleep. His head felt very queer. He wanted to
giggle—<i>What on earth am I doing pounding at this heavy door in the
middle of the night?</i></p>

<p>Gideon Pitts heard the pounding. He got up and started down in his bare
feet.</p>

<p>“You’ll catch your death of cold, Gideon!” his wife called after him.
But she herself was fumbling for her wrapper. She lit the lamp and
holding it in her hand followed her husband to the head of the stairs.
Down below in the dark he was fumbling with the heavy bolt. It shot
back at last and the great door swung in. A big man filled the doorway.
He was gasping for breath. He took one step inside and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> said, “I’m—I’m
Frederick Douglass.” Then he collapsed on the floor at Gideon Pitts’s
bare feet.</p>

<p>Gideon stood staring out. Through the open door he was sure he saw a
couple of horsemen down at the edge of the field. He slammed the door.</p>

<p>Mrs. Pitts was hurrying down, the lamp casting grotesque shadows on the
wall.</p>

<p>“What is it, Gideon? What is it? Did he say—?”</p>

<p>“Hush! It’s Frederick Douglass. He’s been hurt. Somebody’s after him!”
Her husband’s words were hurried and low. He was bending over the man
on the floor.</p>

<p>“I’ll call—” Mrs. Pitts began. Her husband caught her robe.</p>

<p>“Don’t call anyone. Pray God the servants heard nothing. He’s coming
to!”</p>

<p>Mrs. Pitts was suddenly the efficient housewife.</p>

<p>“Some warm water,” she said, setting the lamp down, “and then we’ll get
him upstairs.” She disappeared in the shadows of the hall.</p>

<p>There was a patter of feet on the stairway.</p>

<p>“What’s the matter, papa?” a child’s voice asked. “Oh!”</p>

<p>“Go back to bed, Helen! Mr. Douglass, are you all right?” Gideon Pitts
bent over his unexpected visitor anxiously. Douglass sat up and put his
hand to his head. It came away sticky. He looked around him and knew he
was safe.</p>

<p>“I’m fine, thank you!” he smiled.</p>

<p>“Lie quiet, Mr. Douglass. Your head is hurt. My wife’s gone for warm
water.”</p>

<p>“You are very kind, sir.” Douglass’ head was clearing now. “I’ve been
shot.”</p>

<p>He heard a gasp and both men looked up. The little girl in her trailing
white nightgown was leaning over the banister just above them, her blue
eyes wide with excitement.</p>

<p>“Helen,” her father spoke sharply. “I told you to go back to bed!”</p>

<p>“Oh, father, can’t I help? The poor man is hurt!”</p>

<p>“Don’t worry, honey,” Douglass smiled up at her.</p>

<p>Now Mrs. Pitts was back with bowl and towels. She wiped away the blood,
and Gideon Pitts declared that Douglass’ head had only been grazed.
Douglass told what had happened, while they bandaged and fussed over
him. Then Mrs. Pitts hurried away to get the guest-room ready.</p>

<p>“We’ll be honored if you’d stay the night!” Pitts said. There was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>
nothing else to do. “I’ll drive you in town first thing in the
morning,” his host assured him, helping him upstairs and into a great
four-poster bed.</p>

<p>Everybody got up to see him off. Mrs. Pitts insisted that he have a
“bite of breakfast.” The hired man had rubbed down and fed his horse.</p>

<p>Holding the bridle reins in his hand Douglass climbed into the buggy
with Mr. Pitts.</p>

<p>“Better that I go in with you,” said his host. “Those ruffians might be
lingering somewhere along the road.”</p>

<p>It was a fresh, sweet morning in May. The Pitts’ orchard was in bloom.
Everywhere was peace and growing things. Douglass smiled at the little
girl standing on the wide porch, and Helen Pitts waved her hand.</p>

<p>“Goodbye, Mr. Douglass. Do come back again!”</p>

<p>She felt important, waving at the great Frederick Douglass.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>So it happened that the next day John Brown found Douglass with a
bandage fastened about his head.</p>

<p>“It’s Captain John Brown!” called Charles, ushering the visitor in.
Anna Douglass came in from the kitchen and greeted him warmly.</p>

<p>“We’re just sitting down to breakfast, Captain Brown. You are just in
time.”</p>

<p>Little Annie set another plate, smiling shyly at the old man. His hand
smoothed her soft hair.</p>

<p>“We’ll take a ride,” he promised and Annie’s eyes shone.</p>

<p>“They’ve attacked you!” John Brown exclaimed when Douglass came in with
the bandage on his head.</p>

<p>“It was nothing, a mere scratch.” Douglass shrugged away the incident.
“And how are you, my good friend? Something important brings you here.”</p>

<p>“Let him eat his breakfast first,” begged the wife.</p>

<p>Afterward Douglass read the letter from Kansas.</p>

<p>“Perhaps God directs me to Kansas,” said Brown earnestly. “Perhaps my
path to Virginia lies through Kansas. What do you think?” Douglass
shook his head.</p>

<p>“I do not know.” He was silent a moment, then his eyes lighted. “I’m
leaving tomorrow for our convention in Syracuse. Come with me. Lay this
letter from Kansas before all the Abolitionists. You’ll need money.
Kansas is our concern.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p>

<p>A few days later John Brown wrote his wife:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p><span class="smcap">Dear wife and children</span>:</p>
<p>I reached here on the first day of
the convention, and I have reason to bless God that I came; for I have
met with a most warm reception from all, so far as I know, and—except
by a few sincere, honest, peace Friends—a most hearty approval of my
intention of arming my sons and other friends in Kansas. I received
today donations amounting to a little over sixty dollars—twenty
from Gerrit Smith, five from an old British officer; others giving
smaller sums with such earnest and affectionate expression of their
good wishes as did me more good than money even. John’s two letters
were introduced, and read with such effect by Gerrit Smith as to draw
tears from numerous eyes in the great collection of people present.
The convention has been one of the most interesting meetings I ever
attended in my life; and I made a great addition to the number of
warm-hearted and honest friends.</p>
</div>

<p>The die was cast: John Brown left for Kansas. Instead of sending the
money and arms, says his son John, “he came on with them himself,
accompanied by his brother-in-law, Henry Thompson, and my brother
Oliver. In Iowa he bought a horse and covered wagon; concealing the
arms in this and conspicuously displaying his surveying implements, he
crossed into Missouri near Waverly, and at that place disinterred the
body of his grandson, and brought all safely through to our settlement,
arriving there about the 6th of October, 1855.<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Twelve"><span class="smcap">Chapter Twelve</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>An Avenging Angel brings the fury of the storm</i><br>
</p>


<p>“Did you go out under the auspices of the Emigrant Aid Society?” they
asked John Brown at the trial four years after.</p>

<p>“No, sir,” he answered grimly, “I went out under the auspices of John
Brown, directed by God.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The settlement was a romantic place. Red men gliding by in their swift
canoes had seen stately birds in the reedy lowlands of eastern Kansas
and called the marsh the “swamp of the swan.” Here, on the good lands
that rose up from the dark sluggish rivers, John Brown and his youngest
son, Oliver, drove into the Brown colony.</p>

<p>“We found our folks in a most uncomfortable situation, with no houses
to shelter one of them, no hay or corn fodder of any account secured,
shivering over their little fires, all exposed to the dreadful cutting
winds, morning, evening and stormy days.”</p>

<p>On November 23, 1855, Brown wrote to his wife:</p>

<p>“We have got both families so sheltered that they need not suffer
hereafter; have got part of the hay secured, made some progress in
preparation to build a house for John and Owen; and Salmon has caught a
prairie wolf in a steel trap. We continue to have a good deal of stormy
weather—rains with severe winds, and forming into ice as they fall,
together with cold nights that freeze the ground considerably. Still
God has not forsaken us.”<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> He did not tell her he had been down with
fever.</p>

<p>Thus it was that John Brown came to Kansas and stood ready to fight for
freedom. But no sooner had he arrived than it was plain to him that
the cause for which he was fighting was far different from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> that for
which most of the settlers were willing to risk life and property. John
Brown publicly protested the resolution already drawn up, excluding all
Negroes—slave or free! His words were coldly received.</p>

<p>From Frederick Douglass came more money and a letter.</p>

<p>“We are directing the eyes of the country toward Kansas,” Douglass
wrote. “Charles Sumner in the Senate is speaking as no man ever spoke
there before; Henry Ward Beecher has turned his pulpit into an auction
block from which he sells slaves to freedom; Gerrit Smith and George L.
Sterns have pledged their money; Lewis Tappan and Garrison have laid
aside all former differences. Garrison is no longer bitter about my
politics. He can see that we are accomplishing something. Free Soilers,
Whigs, Liberals and antislavery Democrats are uniting. The state-wide
party which we initiated some time ago has grown into a national
movement.... We have adopted the name Republican, which was, you may
recall, the original name of Thomas Jefferson’s party. Our candidate
is John C. Frémont. His enemies say he is a dreamer who knows nothing
of politics. If the people gather round in full strength we will show
them.”</p>

<p>John Brown folded the letter. There was an unusual flush on his seared
face.</p>

<p>“What is it, father?” Owen asked.</p>

<p>“From Douglass,” Brown replied. “God moves in mysterious ways!” That
was all he said, but the sound of prairie winds was in his voice.</p>

<p>It was in December when rumor that the governor and his pro-slavery
followers planned to surround Lawrence came to the Browns. On getting
this news, they at once agreed to break camp and go to Lawrence. The
band, approaching the town at sunset, loomed strangely on the horizon:
an old horse, a homely wagon, and seven stalwart men armed with pikes,
swords, pistols and guns. John Brown was immediately put in command of
a company. Negotiations had commenced between Governor Shannon and the
principal leaders of the free-state men. They had a force of some five
hundred men to defend Lawrence. Night and day they were busy fortifying
the town with embankments and circular earthworks. On Sunday Governor
Shannon entered the town, and after some parley a treaty was announced.
The terms of the treaty were kept secret, but Brown wrote jubilantly to
New York that the Kansas invasion was over. The Missourians had been
sent home without fighting any battles, burning any infant towns, or
smashing a single Abolitionist press. “Free-state<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> men,” he said, “have
only hereafter to retain the footing they have gained, and Kansas is
free.”</p>

<p>Developments in Kansas did not please the powerful slavocracy. Furious
representatives hurried to Washington. And President Pierce, who
had once sent a battleship to Boston to bring back one trembling,
manacled slave, denounced the free-state men of Kansas as lawless
revolutionists, deprived them of all support from the Federal
government, and threatened them with the penalty for “treasonable
insurrection.” Regular troops were put into the hands of the Kansas
slave power, and armed bands from the South appeared, one from Georgia
encamping on the “swamp of the swan” near the Brown settlement.</p>

<p>Surveying instruments in hand and followed by his “helpers”—chain
carriers, axman and marker—John Brown sauntered into their camp one
May morning. He was taken for a government surveyor and consequently
“sound.” The Georgians talked freely.</p>

<p>“We’ve come to stay,” they said. “We won’t make no war on them as minds
their own business. But all the Abolitionists, such as them damned
Browns over there, we’re going to whip, drive out, or kill—any way to
get shut of them, by God!”<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p>

<p>They mentioned their intended victims by name, and John Brown calmly
wrote down every word they said in his surveyor’s book.</p>

<p>On May 21 the pro-slavery forces swooped down on Lawrence, burned
and sacked it. Its citizens stood by trembling and raised no hand in
defense.</p>

<p>The gutted, burning town sent a wave of anger across the country. It
struck the Senate with full force. Only an aisle separated men whose
eyes blazed with hate. Charles Sumner lifted his huge frame and in a
voice that resounded like thunder denounced “a crime without example in
the history of the past.” He did not hesitate to name names—calling
Stephen Douglas, Senator from Illinois, and Matthew Butler from South
Carolina murderers of the men of Lawrence. The next day, while Sumner
sat writing at his seat, young Preston Brooks, representative from
South Carolina, came up behind the Massachusetts legislator and beat
him over the head with a heavy walking stick. Charles Sumner, lying
bleeding and unconscious in the aisle, reduced the whole vast struggle
to simple terms.</p>

<p>Out West, John Brown hurried to Lawrence. He sat down by the smoldering
ashes in tight-lipped anger. He was indignant that there had been no
resistance.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p>

<p>“What were they doing?” he raged.</p>

<p>Someone mentioned the word “caution.”</p>

<p>“Caution, caution, sir!” he sneered. “I am eternally tired of hearing
the word caution. It is nothing but the word of cowardice.”</p>

<p>Yet there seemed to be nothing to do now; and he was about to leave,
when a boy came riding up. The gang at Dutch Henry’s, he said, had told
the women in Brown settlement that all free-state folks must get out
by Saturday or Sunday, else they would be driven out. Two houses and a
store in the nearby German settlement had been burned.</p>

<p>Then John Brown arose.</p>

<p>“I will attend to those fellows.” He spoke quietly. Here was something
to do. He called four of his sons—Watson, Frederick, Owen and
Oliver—and a neighbor with a wagon and horses offered to carry the
band. They began carefully sharpening cutlasses. An uneasy feeling
crept over the onlookers. They all knew that John Brown was going to
strike a blow for freedom in Kansas, but they did not understand just
what that blow would be. As the wagon moved off, a cheer arose from the
company left behind.</p>

<p>He loosed a civil war. Everything that came after was only powder for
the hungry cannon. Freedom is a hard-bought thing! John Brown knew. He
already knew on that terrible night when he rode down with his sons
into “the shadows of the Swamp of the Swan—that long, low-winding
and somber stream fringed everywhere with woods and dark with bloody
memory. Forty-eight hours they lingered there, and then of a pale May
morning rode up to the world again. Behind them lay five twisted, red
and mangled corpses. Behind them rose the stifled wailing of widows and
little children. Behind them the fearful driver gazed and shuddered.
But before them rode a man, tall, dark, grim-faced and awful. His hands
were red and his name was John Brown. Such was the cost of freedom.”<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p>

<p>John Brown became a hunted outlaw.</p>

<p>They burned his house, destroyed everything he and his sons had
garnered. But he had only begun his war upon the slavers. Out of the
night he came, time after time, and always he left death behind.</p>

<p>“He’s mad! Mad!” they said, but pro-slavery men began to leave Kansas.</p>

<p>“Da freedom’s comin’!” Black men lifted their hands in silent ecstasy.
They slipped across the borders and looked for John Brown.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> Tabor, a
tiny prairie Iowa town of thirty homesteads, became the most important
Underground Railroad station on the western frontier. For here John
Brown set up camp, and began to organize for his “march.” Strength had
come up in the old man, charging his whole being with power.</p>

<p>“We should not have given him money!” the folks back East were saying.</p>

<p>Douglass, moving back and forth from Rochester to Boston—to New York,
Syracuse and Cleveland—grew thin and haggard. He had stood like a
bulwark of strength, even when the Supreme Court had handed down
its Dred Scott decision. People found clarion words in the <cite>North
Star</cite>.</p>

<p>“The Supreme Court of the United States is not the only power in this
world,” Douglass wrote. “We, the Abolitionists and colored people,
should meet this decision, unlooked for and monstrous as it appears,
in a cheerful spirit. This very attempt to blot out forever the hopes
of an enslaved people may be one necessary link in the chain of events
preparatory to the complete overthrow of the whole slave system.”</p>

<p>Months passed, and all he heard from Kansas were the awful reports of
John Brown’s riding abroad. He could not argue the right or wrong of
this thing. Condemnation of John Brown left him cold. But was John
Brown destroying all they had built up? This was war! Was John Brown’s
way the only way? They had lost the election. The new party’s fine
words fell back upon them like chilling drops of rain. Then out in
Kansas the Governor declared the state free! There was peace in Kansas.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>One night in January, 1858, Douglass was working late in the shop.
The house was still, locked in the hard fastness of a winter night.
Outside, great slow white flakes were falling, erasing the contours of
the street beneath a blanket that rounded every eave, leveled fences
and walks, and muffled every sound. But he heard the light tapping on
the window pane and instantly put out the light. There must be no light
to throw shadows when he opened the door upon one of his fugitives. But
even without a light he recognized the muffled figure.</p>

<p>“John Brown!” Douglass’ low voice sang a welcome.</p>

<p>He drew him in and brushed the snowflakes off. He lit the lamp with
hands that trembled. Then he turned and looked at this man who<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> had
proved that he hated slavery more than he loved his life, his good
name, or his sons. Even the little flesh he used to have was burned
away. Yet one could see that all his bones were granite, and bright
within the chalice of his mortal frame his spirit shone, unquenchable.</p>

<p>“You’re safe, John Brown!” It was a ridiculous thing to say, and John
Brown rewarded him with one of his rare smiles—the smile few people
knew he had, with which he always won a child.</p>

<p>“Yes, Douglass, now I am free to carry out my mission.”</p>

<p>Douglass’ heart missed a beat. John Brown had not sought him out as a
fugitive, he had not come to his house to hide away—not John Brown!</p>

<p>“Frederick is dead.”</p>

<p>The words came with blunt finality, but a spasm of pain distorted the
old man’s face.</p>

<p>“Oh, John! John!”</p>

<p>Douglass gently pushed him into the armchair, knelt at his feet, pulled
off the heavy boots, then hurried away to bring him food. He ate as one
does whose body is starving, gulping down unchewed mouthfuls with the
warm milk.</p>

<p>“I come direct from the National Kansas Committee in Chicago. They
will perhaps equip a company. I have letters from Governor Chase and
Governor Robinson. They endorse my plan.”</p>

<p>Douglass expressed his pleased surprise. Brown wiped his shaggy beard.
Something like a grin flickered on his face.</p>

<p>“Kansas is free and the good people are glad to be rid of me,” he said
dryly.</p>

<p>Douglass understood: they dared not jail the man.</p>

<p>Brown’s plan was now complete. He spread out maps and papers and, as he
talked, traced the lines of his march with a blunt pencil.</p>

<p>“God has established the Allegheny Mountains from the foundation of
the world that they might one day be a refuge for the slaves. We march
into these mountains, set up our stations about five miles apart, send
out our call; and, as the slaves flock to us, we sustain them in this
natural fortress.”</p>

<p>Douglass followed the line of his pencil.</p>

<p>“Each group will be well armed,” the old man continued, “but will avoid
violence except in self-defense. In that case, they will make it as
costly as possible to the assailing parties—whether they be citizens
or soldiers. We will break the backbone of slavery by rendering slave
property insecure. Men will not invest their money in a species<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> of
property likely to take legs and walk off with itself!” His eyes were
shining.</p>

<p>“I do not grudge the money or energy I have spent in Kansas,” he went
on, “but now my funds are gone. We must have arms, ammunition, food and
clothing. Later we will subsist upon the country roundabout. I now have
the nucleus of my band.” Shadows crossed his face. “Already they have
gone to hell and back with me.”</p>

<p>He talked on—three military schools to be set up, one in Iowa, one in
northern Ohio and one in Canada. It would be a permanent community in
Canada. “Finally the escaped slaves will pass on to Canada, each doing
his share to strengthen the route,” he explained.</p>

<p>“But won’t it take years to free the slaves this way?” his friend asked.</p>

<p>“Indeed not! Each month our line of fortresses will extend farther
south.” His pencil moved across Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, to
Mississippi. “To the delta itself! The slaves will free themselves.”</p>

<p>Pale dawn showed in the sky before they went upstairs.</p>

<p>“You must sleep now, John Brown.”</p>

<p>But before lying down, the old man looked hard into the broad, dark
face. Douglass nodded his head.</p>

<p>“I’m with you, John Brown. Rest a little. Then we’ll talk,” Douglass
said and tiptoed from the room.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>When John Brown left the house in Alexander Street several days later,
he was expected in many quarters. He went first to Boston, George L.
Sterns, the Massachusetts antislavery leader, paying his expenses.
Sterns, who had never met “Osawatomie Brown,” had written to Rochester
offering to introduce him to friends of freedom in Boston. They met on
the street outside the committee rooms in Nilis’ Block, with a Kansas
man doing the honors; and Brown went along to Sterns’ home.</p>

<p>Coming into the parlor to greet the man who had become a household
word during the summer of 1856, Mrs. Sterns heard her guest saying,
“Gentlemen, I consider the Golden Rule and the Declaration of
Independence one and inseparable.”</p>

<p>“I felt,” she said later, writing about the profound impression of
moral magnetism Brown made on everybody who saw him in those days,
“that some old Cromwellian hero had dropped down among us.”</p>

<p>Emerson, she remembered, called him “the most ideal of men, for he
wanted to put all his ideas into action.” Yet Mrs. Sterns was struck<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>
by his modest estimate of the work he had in hand. After several
efforts to bring together their friends to meet Captain Brown in his
home, Sterns found that Sunday was the only day that would serve
everybody’s convenience. Being a little uncertain how this might
strike their guest’s ideas of religious propriety, Sterns prefaced his
invitation with something like an apology.</p>

<p>“Mr. Sterns,” came the prompt reply, “I have a little ewe-lamb that I
want to pull out of the ditch, and the Sabbath will be as good a day as
any to do it.”</p>

<p>Over in Concord he went to see Henry David Thoreau. They sat at a
table covered with lichens, ferns, birds’ nests and arrowheads. They
dipped their fingers into a large trencher of nuts, cracked the shells
between their teeth, and talked as kindred souls. Thoreau, lean
and narrow-chested, thrust his big ugly nose forward and, with his
searching gray eyes, probed the twisted steel of John Brown. The hermit
believed then what he said afterward, when he served his term in jail:</p>

<p>“When one-sixth of a people who are come to the land of liberty are
enslaved, it is time for free men to rebel.”</p>

<p>The secretary of the Massachusetts State Kansas Committee received
Captain Brown with cautious respect. Half an hour later he was saying,
“By God, I’ll <i>make</i> them give him money!” But the Committee
warned, “We must know how he will use the money.”</p>

<p>Kind-hearted, genial Gerrit Smith was glad to have his old friend with
him for a few days.</p>

<p>“Be sure of your men,” he advised.</p>

<p>“My men need not be questioned, sir.” John Brown spoke a little stiffly.</p>

<p>Gerrit Smith stifled a sigh. <i>His faith in God and man is
sublime!</i> he thought a little sadly.</p>

<p>Swarthy, bearded Thomas W. Higginson, young Unitarian minister, set out
immediately to raise funds on his own. He was hissed at Harvard, his
Alma Mater, but he was not swayed from his course.</p>

<p>At a meeting at the Astor House in New York the National Kansas
Committee voted “in aid of Captain Brown ... 12 boxes of clothing,
sufficient for 60 persons, 25 Colt revolvers, five thousand dollars to
be used in any defense measures that may become necessary.” But only
five hundred dollars was paid out.</p>

<p>John Brown was disappointed. He had hoped to obtain the means of arming
and thoroughly equipping a regular outfit of minutemen.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> He had left
his men suffering hunger, cold, nakedness, and some of them sickness
and wounds. He had engaged the services of one Hugh Forbes, who claimed
to have been a lieutenant of Garibaldi. Forbes was to take over the
military tactics. He had demanded six hundred dollars for his expenses.
John Brown had given it to him.</p>

<p>“I am going back,” Brown said to Douglass, when he stopped overnight
in Rochester. “You must keep up the work here—solicit funds, keep the
issue before them. I have no baggage wagons, tents, camp equipage,
tools ... or a sufficient supply of ammunition. I have left my family
poorly supplied with common necessaries.”</p>

<p>“I do not like what you tell me about this Hugh Forbes,” said Douglass.</p>

<p>Brown was a little impatient.</p>

<p>“He is a trained man in military affairs. I know nothing about
maneuvers. We need him!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was John Brown’s intention to leave the actual training of his men
to Forbes, so that he might be free for larger matters. Nor did he want
to spend time raising funds. He wanted to organize Negroes for the job
ahead.</p>

<p>Perhaps better than any other white man of his time John Brown knew
what Negroes in every part of North America were doing. He knew their
newspapers, their churches and their schools. To most Americans of the
time all black men were slaves or fugitives. But from the beginning
John Brown sought to know Negroes personally and individually. He went
into their homes, sought them out in business, talked to them, listened
to the stories of their trials, harkened to their dreams, advised, and
took advice from them. He set out to enlist the boldest and most daring
spirits for his plan.</p>

<p>In March, Brown and his eldest son met with Henry Highland Garnet
and William Still, Negro Secretary of the Philadelphia Anti-Slavery
Society, in the home of Stephen Smith, a Philadelphia Negro lumber
merchant. Brown remained in Philadelphia a week or ten days, holding
long conferences in Negro churches.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, his black lieutenant, Kagi, ragged, stooped,
insignificant-looking, shrewd and cunning, was traveling over the
Allegheny Mountains, surveying the land, marking sites and making
useful contacts. Kagi had some schooling and, when he desired, could
speak clearly and to the point. He knew in detail the vast extent of
Brown’s plan. He lived and breathed it. He had been wounded with John<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>
Brown in Kansas, and unswerving he walked to his death with him. For
Kagi believed that John Brown was making a mistake to attack Harper’s
Ferry when he did, but the little black man held the bridge until his
riddled body plunged into the icy waters below.</p>

<p>In the spring of 1858 Brown went to Canada to set up personal contacts
with the nearly fifty thousand Negroes there. Chatham, chief town of
Kent County, had a large Negro population with several churches, a
newspaper and a private school. Here on May 10 the Captain addressed
a convention called together on the pretext of organizing a Masonic
lodge. And at this convention they drew up and adopted the constitution
of forty-eight articles that stunned the authorities when they found it
in the hide-away farmhouse near Harper’s Ferry.</p>

<p>Up to this time Frederick Douglass was fully cognizant of all John
Brown’s plans. The Douglass home in Rochester was his headquarters. (He
had insisted that he pay board, and Douglass charged him three dollars
a week.)</p>

<p>“While here, he spent most of his time in correspondence,” Douglass
wrote later. “When he was not writing letters, he was writing and
revising a constitution which he meant to put in operation by means of
the men who should go with him into the mountains. He said that, to
avoid anarchy and confusion, there should be a regularly-constituted
government, which each man who came with him should be sworn to honor
and support. I have a copy of this constitution in Captain Brown’s own
handwriting, as prepared by himself at my house.</p>

<p>“He called his friends from Chatham to come together, that he might lay
his constitution before them for their approval and adoption. His whole
time and thought were given to this subject. It was the first thing in
the morning and the last thing at night. Once in a while he would say
he could, with a few resolute men, capture Harper’s Ferry, and supply
himself with arms belonging to the government at that place; but he
never announced his intention to do so. It was, however ... in his mind
as a thing he might do. I paid little attention to such remarks, though
I never doubted that he thought just what he said. Soon after his
coming to me, he asked me to get for him two smoothly planed boards,
upon which he could illustrate, with a pair of dividers, by a drawing,
the plan of fortification which he meant to adopt in the mountains.</p>

<p>“These forts were to be so arranged as to connect one with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> other,
by secret passages, so that if one was carried another could easily
be fallen back upon, and be the means of dealing death to the enemy
at the very moment when he might think himself victorious. I was less
interested in these drawings than my children were, but they showed
that the old man had an eye to the means as to the end, and was giving
his best thought to the work he was about to take in hand.”<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The month of May, 1859, John Brown spent in Boston collecting
funds, and in New York consulting his Negro friends, with a trip
to Connecticut to hurry the making of his thousand pikes. Sickness
intervened, but at last on June 20, the advance guard of five—Brown
and two of his sons, Jerry Anderson and Kagi—started southward.</p>

<p>Many times during these months Frederick Douglass wondered whether or
not John Brown did not have the only possible plan for freeing the
black man. The antislavery fight had worn very thin. The North knew
of the moral and physical horror of slavery. The South knew also,
but cotton prices continued to rise. Logic would not separate cotton
growers from their slaves. Many of the old, staunch Abolitionists were
gone. Theodore Parker had burned himself out in the cause. Down with
tuberculosis, he was on a ship bound for southern Italy where, in spite
of the warm sunshine, he was to die.</p>

<p>Daily the South grew more defiant. When the doctrine of popular
sovereignty failed to make Kansas a slave state, Southern statesmen
abandoned it for firmer ground. They had lost faith in the rights,
powers and wisdom of the people and took refuge in the Constitution.
Henceforth the favorite doctrine of the South was that the people of a
territory had no voice in the matter of slavery. The Constitution of
the United States, they claimed, of its own force and effect, carried
slavery safely into any territory of the United States and protected
the system there until it should cease to be a territory and became
a state. In practical operation, this doctrine would make all future
new states slaveholding states; for slavery, once planted and nursed
for years, could easily strengthen itself against the evil day of
eradication.</p>

<p>In a rage, Garrison publicly burned a copy of the Constitution
denouncing it as a “covenant with Satan.” Douglass went away heartsick.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span></p>

<p>In the heart of the Alleghenies, halfway between Maine and Florida,
opens a mighty gateway. From the south comes the Shenandoah, a restless
silver thread gleaming in the sun; from the west the Potomac moves
placidly between wide banks. But at their junction they are cramped.
The two rivers rush together against the mountains, rend it asunder and
tear a passage to the sea. And here is Harper’s Ferry.</p>

<p>Why did John Brown choose this particular point for his attack upon
American slavery? Was it the act of a madman? A visionary fool? What
was his crime?</p>

<p>John Brown did not tell them at the trial. His lieutenant, Kagi, was
dead. Green, Coppoc, Stevens, Copeland, Cook and Hazlett followed their
captain to the gallows without a word. Perhaps only one man went on
living who knew the full answers. His name was Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>Douglass has been attacked because he did not go with John Brown to
Harper’s Ferry, because he did not testify in Brown’s defense, because
he put himself outside the reach of pursuers who would drag him to the
trial. He could not have saved John Brown and his brave followers.
Every word of the truth would have drawn the noose tighter about their
necks. It would have hanged Douglass!</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was on a pleasant day in September when the letter came from John
Brown. It was very short.</p>

<p>“I am forced to move sooner than I had planned. Before going forward I
want to see you.”</p>

<p>Brown, under the guise of a farmer interested only in developing a
recently purchased piece of land, was living under an assumed name with
his two “daughters”—actually a daughter and young Oliver’s wife. His
men were keeping under cover. They made every effort to keep the farm
normal-looking. Brown asked Douglass to come to Chambersburg. There he
would find a Negro barber named Watson, who would conduct him to the
place of meeting. A last line was added: “Bring along the Emperor. Tell
him the time has come.”</p>

<p>Douglass knew that he referred to Shields Green, a fugitive slave, whom
the old man had met in his house. Green, a powerful black, had escaped
from South Carolina. He was nicknamed “the Emperor” because of his size
and majestic carriage. Brown had seized upon him immediately, confiding
to him his plan, and Green had promised to go with him when Brown was
ready to move.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span></p>

<p>They set out together, stopping over in New York City with a Reverend
James Glocester. Upon hearing where they were going, Mrs. Glocester
pressed ten dollars into Douglass’ hand.</p>

<p>“Give it to Captain Brown, with my best wishes,” she said.</p>

<p>They sped southward past the waving, green fields and big, white
farms of prosperous Dutch farmers. Douglass sat by the window with
his massive head sunk forward, not looking out. Then the train curved
into the Blue Ridge Mountains where the pine-covered hills begin, and
stopped at Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. The first man at the depot whom
they asked directed them to Watson, the barber.</p>

<p>He stood looking after the two Negroes as they strode down the platform.</p>

<p>“Damned if they don’t walk like they own the earth!” he grunted.</p>

<p>Watson called to his boy when they stepped into his shop. He took them
to his house, where his wife greeted the great Frederick Douglass and
his friend with much fluttering.</p>

<p>“Make yourselves at home,” said the barber. “As soon as it is dark I
will drive you out to the old stone quarry. That’s the place, but we
must wait until dark.”</p>

<p>They left the wagon and its driver on the road and climbed up to the
quarry. All about them the rocks loomed like great stone faces in the
moonlight. And when John Brown stepped out of the shadows, it was as
if a rock had moved toward them. His old clothes, covered with dust;
his white hair and hard-cut face, like granite in the moonlight; his
strained, worn face with the two burning coals that were his eyes.
Douglass’ heart missed a beat. Something was very wrong.</p>

<p>“What is it, John Brown? What has happened?”</p>

<p>The old man looked at him without speaking. He studied the brown face
almost as if he had not seen it before. Then he spoke briefly.</p>

<p>“Come!”</p>

<p>He led them between the rocks and stooped to enter a cave. Inside
was Kagi and in a niche in the wall was a lighted torch. There were
boulders about, and at a sign from the old man they sat down—John
Brown, Kagi, Shields Green and Frederick Douglass. They waited for
Brown to speak. He did so, leaning forward and putting a thin, gnarled
hand on Douglass’ knee.</p>

<p>“Douglass, we can wait no longer. Our move now must be a decisive one.”</p>

<p>Douglass was bitterly chiding himself. He should have come<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> sooner.
These last months had drained the old man’s strength. He needed help
here. The dark man spoke gently.</p>

<p>“But you said the time to begin calling in the slaves would come after
the crops are gathered, as the Christmas approaches. Then many can get
away without being missed right away. Is your ammunition distributed?
Are your stations ready to receive and defend the fugitives?”</p>

<p>John Brown shook his head.</p>

<p>“No. We are not ready with all that.” He drew a long breath, and it was
obvious it caused him pain. “You were right about Hugh Forbes,” he said
then. “He has deserted us and,” Brown hesitated, hating to say it, “I
fear he has talked.”</p>

<p>Douglass’ face expressed his shock. Why had he not strangled the
tinseled fool with his own hands?</p>

<p>“We are being watched: my men are certain of it. At any moment we may
be arrested. Don’t forget, I’m still an outlaw in Kansas.” He added the
last dryly, almost indifferently. Then suddenly the flame flared. John
Brown was on his feet, his head lifted. He shook back his white hair.</p>

<p>“But God is with us! He has delivered the gates into our hands! We hold
the key to the Allegheny Mountains. They stand here, our sure and safe
defense!”</p>

<p>Douglass stared at him. Was it the torchlight that so transfigured his
old friend? He stood like an avenging angel, illumined by the force
that rose up in him. It charged his whole being with power—his eyes,
his frame, the leashed, metallic voice.</p>

<p>“I am ready!”</p>

<p>Douglass looked at Kagi. Kagi’s eyes fixed on the lifted face. He
turned and looked at Green, and on that black giant’s countenance he
saw the same imprint. He wet his trembling lips. An icy hand had closed
about his heart. He was afraid.</p>

<p>“The map, Kagi!” John Brown spoke sharply.</p>

<p>Kagi was ready. Brown knelt on the ground, and Kagi spread a wide sheet
in front of him. He brought the torch near and knelt holding it, while
Brown traced the lines with his finger.</p>

<p>“Here is the long line of our mountain fortress,” he said tersely.
“Right here east of the Shenandoah, the mountains rise to a height
of two thousand feet or more. This natural defense is right at the
entrance to the mountain passage. See! An hour’s climb from this point
and a hundred men could be inside an inaccessible fastness.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> Here
attacks could be repelled with little difficulty. Here are Loudon
Heights—then beyond the passage plunges straight into the heart of the
thickest slave districts. The slaves can get to us without difficulty,
after we have made our way through here.”</p>

<p>His finger had stopped. Douglass leaned forward. He was holding his
breath. He could feel Brown’s eyes upon him.</p>

<p>“But that—that is Harper’s Ferry!” Douglass said, and his voice
faltered.</p>

<p>He could feel the surge of strength in the other man.</p>

<p>“Yes,” he said, “Harper’s Ferry is the safest natural entrance to our
mountain passage. We shall go through Harper’s Ferry, and there we’ll
take whatever arms we need.”</p>

<p>So little children speak, and fools, and gods!</p>

<p>For a moment there was silence in the cave. Then Douglass got up,
striking his head against the low wall. He did not heed the blow, but
took John Brown by the arm.</p>

<p>“Come outside, Captain Brown,” he said. “Let’s talk outside. I—I can’t
breathe in here!”</p>

<p>And so they faced each other in the open. Night in the mountains, stars
over their heads, and stark, jagged rocks white in the shadows.</p>

<p>“You can’t do it, John Brown!” Douglass’ voice was strained. “You would
be attacking an arsenal of the United States—This is war against the
federal government. The whole country would be arrayed against us!”</p>

<p>“You do not understand, Douglass. We’re not going to kill anybody.
There are only a handful of soldiers guarding that ferry. We’ll merely
make them prisoners, hold them until we take the arms and get up
into the mountains. Of course, there’ll be a great outcry. But all
the better. The slaves will hear of it. They’ll know we’re in the
mountains, and they’ll flock to us.”</p>

<p>“Do you really believe this, John Brown? Do you really believe you can
take a fort so easily?”</p>

<p>A hard note had come again into the old man’s voice.</p>

<p>“Am I concerned with ease, Frederick Douglass? What is this you are
saying? Our mission is to free the slaves! This is the plan!”</p>

<p>“There was no such plan,” Douglass interposed hotly. “You said that
fighting would only be in self-defense. This is an attack!”</p>

<p>John Brown’s passion matched his.</p>

<p>“And when I rode down into the marshes of Kansas it was an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> attack! You
did not condemn then! Here we merely force our way through a passage!”</p>

<p>“This is treason! This is insurrection! This is war! I am not with you!”</p>

<p>The old man’s voice cut like a whip.</p>

<p>“So! You have escaped so far from slavery that you do not care! You
have carried the scars upon your back into high places, so you have
forgotten. You prate of treason! You are afraid to face a gun!”</p>

<p>Douglass cried out in anguish. “John! John! For God’s sake, stop!”</p>

<p>He stumbled away, sank down on a rock and buried his face in his hands.
Some time later he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and Brown’s voice,
softened and subdued, came to him.</p>

<p>“Forgive an old man, son.”</p>

<p>Douglass took the hand in his and pressed it against his face. The old
man’s hand was rough and knotty, but it was very firm.</p>

<p>“This is no time for soft words or for oratory,” he said. “We have
a job to do. Years ago I swore it—that I would do my part. God has
called me to lift his crushed and suffering dark children. Twenty-five
years have gone by making plans. Now unless I move quickly all of these
years will have been spent in vain. I will take this fort. I will hold
this pass. I will free the slaves!”</p>

<p>The stars faded and went out one by one, the gray sky blended through
purple and rose to blue, and still they talked. Kagi brought them food.</p>

<p>At last Douglass lay down inside the cave. His eyes were closed, but
his mind feverishly leaped from one possibility to another.</p>

<p>Then Brown was laying other maps before him. He had gone over it
all so carefully. Now he showed each step of the way—where the men
would stand, how they would hold the bridge, where they would cut the
telegraph wires, how the engine-house in the arsenal would be occupied.</p>

<p>“Without a shot being fired, Douglass. I tell you we can take it
without a shot!”</p>

<p>Douglass brought all the pressure of his persuasive power against him.
He threw reason, logic, common sense at the old man.</p>

<p>“You’ll destroy all we’ve done!”</p>

<p>John Brown looked at him and his voice and face were cold.</p>

<p>“<i>What</i> have you done?” The question bit like steel.</p>

<p>Another day passed. That night a storm came up. They sat huddled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> in
the cave, while outside the rain beat down upon the rocks and tore up
twisted roots. The mountains groaned and rumbled and the winds howled.
During the storm the old man slept serenely.</p>

<p>When the rain stopped Douglass went out into the dripping morning.
Puddles of water splashed beneath his feet, shreds of clouds lingered
in the pine tops and broke against the side of the hills; the sky was
clearing and soon the sun would come through. The fresh-washed earth
gave off a clean, new smell. The morning mocked him with its promise of
a bright, new day.</p>

<p>He heard John Brown behind him and stopped. He knew that strong,
elastic step. He heard the voice—full, clear and renewed with rest.</p>

<p>“Douglass,” Brown asked, “have you reached your decision?”</p>

<p>Without turning, Douglass answered. And his voice was weary and beaten.</p>

<p>“I am going back.”</p>

<p>The old man made no sound. Douglass turned and saw him standing
straight and slender in the morning light, a gentle breeze lifting his
soft white hair, his wrinkled face carved against the sky. With a cry
of utter woe Douglass threw himself upon the ground, encircling the
slight frame in his arms.</p>

<p>“Oh, John—John Brown—don’t go! You’ll be killed! It’s a trap! You’ll
never get out alive—I beg you, don’t go! Don’t go!”</p>

<p>Terrible sobs shook him; he could not stop.</p>

<p>“Douglass! Douglass!”</p>

<p>Brown took him by the shoulders, pressed his face against him, spoke as
to a child.</p>

<p>“For shame, Douglass! Everything will be all right.” Then, when he saw
the big man was still, he added, “Come and go with me. You shall see
that everything will be all right.”</p>

<p>Douglass shook his head. He clung to the rough, gnarled hands.</p>

<p>“This is the hardest part of all. I cannot throw my life away with you!
Years ago in Maryland I knew I had to live. That’s <i>my</i> task,
John—that I live.”</p>

<p>“You shall have a trusted bodyguard!” The old man looked down at him
with a twisted smile. Douglass made a gesture of resignation. He raised
his eyes once more.</p>

<p>“Will nothing change you from this course?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Nothing,” answered John Brown. He gently pulled himself away and
walked to the edge of the cliff, looking out into the morning. Douglass
sagged upon the ground.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span></p>

<p>“You may be right, Frederick Douglass.” His words came slowly now.
“Perhaps I’ll not succeed at Harper’s Ferry. Maybe—I’ll never leave
there alive. Yet I must go! Until this moment I had never faced that
possibility, and I could not give you up. Now that I do, I see that
only through your living can my dying be made clear. So, let us have an
end of all this talk. Perhaps this is God’s way.”</p>

<p>Douglass pulled himself up. He was very tired.</p>

<p>“I must tell Green,” he said.</p>

<p>John Brown turned. His face was untroubled, his voice alert.</p>

<p>“Yes. I had forgotten. Get him.”</p>

<p>They came upon Shields Green and Kagi leaving the cave. Over their
shoulders were fishing poles. Douglass spoke.</p>

<p>“Shields, I am leaving. Are you going back with me?”</p>

<p>John Brown spoke, the words coming easily, a simple explanation.</p>

<p>“Both of you know that Douglass disagrees with my plan. He says we’ll
fail at Harper’s Ferry—that none of us will come out alive.” He paused
a moment and then said, “Maybe he is right.”</p>

<p>Douglass waited, but still Shields Green only looked at him. At last he
asked, “Well, Shields?”</p>

<p>“The Emperor” shifted the fishing rod in his hand. Then his eyes turned
toward John Brown. Douglass knew even before he spoke. Shields looked
him full in the face and said, “Ah t’ink Ah goes wid tha old man!”</p>

<p>And he and Kagi turned away and went off down to the stream.</p>

<p>Brown held his hand a moment before speaking.</p>

<p>“Go quickly now, and go without regrets. You have your job to do and I
have mine.”</p>

<p>Douglass did not look back as he stumbled over the wet, slippery rocks.
Never in his life had he felt so desolate, never had a day seemed so
bleak and empty, as alone he went down the mountain <i>to live</i> for
freedom. He had left John Brown and Shields Green to die for freedom.
Whose was the better part?</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Thirteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Thirteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
“<i>Give them arms, Mr. Lincoln!</i>”<br>
</p>


<p>The news of Harper’s Ferry stunned Washington. “<i>A United States
arsenal attacked—Slaves stampeding!</i>” “<i>The madman from Kansas
run amuck!</i>” “<i>The slaves are armed!</i>” Panic seized the South,
and Capitol Hill rocked and reeled with the shock.</p>

<p>Jack brought home copies of the <cite>New York Herald</cite>, and Amelia read
how the old man lay bleeding on a pallet with his two sons cold and
still at his side. Governor Wise, leaning over to condemn, had drawn
back before a courage, fortitude and simple faith which silenced him.</p>

<p>“There is an eternity behind and an eternity before,” John Brown
had said, and his voice did not falter. “This little speck in the
center, however long, is comparatively but a minute. The difference
between your tenure and mine is trifling, and I therefore tell you
to be prepared. I am prepared. You have a heavy responsibility, and
it behooves you to meet it. You may dispose of me easily, but this
question is still to be settled ... the end is not yet.”</p>

<p>“Why did he let the train through?” people asked. “<i>Is</i> he crazy?”</p>

<p>“I came here to liberate slaves.” All his explanations were so simple.
“I have acted from a sense of duty, and am content to await my fate;
but I think the crowd have treated me badly.... Yesterday I could have
killed whom I chose; but I had no desire to kill any person, and would
not have killed a man had they not tried to kill me and my men. I
could have sacked and burned the town, but did not; I have treated the
persons whom I took as hostages kindly. If I had succeeded in running
off slaves this time, I could have raised twenty times as many men as I
have now, for a similar expedition. But I have failed.”</p>

<p>An old man had been stopped—a crazy old man, whose equally<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> crazy
followers were killed or captured. It was over and very little harm
done. An unpleasant incident to be soon forgotten.</p>

<p>But no one would have done with it. Papers throughout the country sowed
John Brown’s words into every town and hamlet; preachers repeated them
in their pulpits; people gathered in small knots on the roadside and
shouted them defiantly or whispered them cautiously; black men and
women everywhere bowed their heads and wept hot, scalding tears. And
William Lloyd Garrison, the man of peace, the “non-resister,” said,
“How marvelous has been the change in public opinion during thirty
years of moral agitation. Ten years ago there were thousands who could
not endure the slightest word of rebuke of the South; now they can
swallow John Brown whole and his rifle in the bargain.”</p>

<p>The old man never lost his calm. Frenzy shook every slave state in the
Union. Rumors spread and multiplied. Black and white men were seized,
beaten, and killed. Slaves disappeared. A hue and cry arose.</p>

<p>“The Abolitionists! Get the Abolitionists! They are behind John Brown!”</p>

<p>Amelia read of letters and papers found in the farmhouse near Harper’s
Ferry. “<i>Many people are implicated! Indictments being drawn up!</i>”
She looked at Jack, her face white.</p>

<p>“Do you suppose—could it be—would <i>he</i> be among them?” She bit
her trembling lips.</p>

<p>Jack Haley frowned. He had heard talk at the office. He knew they were
looking for Frederick Douglass. He knew they would hang this Negro whom
they hated and feared more than a dozen white men—<i>if</i> they got
him. He patted Amelia on the shoulder.</p>

<p>“I wouldn’t worry,” he comforted her. “Your Frederick is a smart man.”</p>

<p>“He might be needed to testify—he may have something to say.” Amelia
was certain Frederick Douglass would not turn aside from his duty.</p>

<p>“He is not a fool,” Jack said, shaking his head. “The Dred Scott
decision renders his word useless. No word of his can help John Brown.”</p>

<p>Amelia heard the bitterness in Jack’s voice and she sighed. Time had
dealt kindly with Amelia. At sixty her step was more elastic, her skin
smoother and her shoulders straighter than the day, fifteen years
before, when she had walked away from Covey’s place. Mrs.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> Royall,
intrepid journalist, was dead. Amelia had stayed on in the house,
assumed the mortgage, and took in as roomers a score of clerks and
secretaries who labored in the government buildings a few blocks away.
“Miss Amelia’s” house was popular, and her rooms were in demand.</p>

<p>Jack had married and talked of going away, of starting his own paper,
of becoming a power in one of the new publishing houses—Then suddenly,
during a sleeting winter, an epidemic had struck Washington. Afterward,
there had been quite a stir about “cleaning up the city.” Certain
sections had got new sewers and rubbish was collected. But Jack’s wife
was dead. So a grim-faced, older Jack had moved in with Amelia. He
had stayed on with the paper, contemptuous of much he saw and heard.
For Jack Haley, as for many people in the United States the fall of
1859, John Brown cleared the air. <i>Somebody’s doing something, thank
God!</i></p>

<p>Amelia continued to scan the papers, dreading to see Frederick
Douglass’ name. And one day she did, but as she read farther a smile
lit up her face. The story was an angry denunciation of “this Frederick
Douglass” by Governor Wise of Virginia. Douglass, he announced, had
slipped through their fingers. He was known to have boarded a British
steamer bound for England. “Could I overtake that vessel,” the Governor
was quoted as saying, “I would take him from her deck at any cost.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Off the coast of Labrador, in weather four degrees below zero, the
<i>Scotia</i> strained and groaned. There was something fiercely
satisfying to one passenger in the struggle with the elements.
Frederick Douglass, pacing the icy deck or tossing in his cabin, felt
that the sky <i>should</i> be black. The waters <i>should</i> foam and
dash, the winds <i>should</i> howl; for John Brown lay in prison and
his brave sons were dead!</p>

<p>Back in Concord, the gentle Thoreau was ringing the town bell and
crying in the streets, “Old John Brown is dead—John Brown the immortal
lives!”</p>

<p>By the time Douglass docked at Liverpool, England was as much alive to
what had happened at Harper’s Ferry as the United States. Once more
Douglass was called to Scotland and Ireland—this time to give an
account of the men who had thus flung away their lives in a desperate
effort to free the slaves.</p>

<p>Having accepted an invitation to speak in Paris, he wrote for a
passport. A suspicion current at the time, that a conspiracy against<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>
the life of Napoleon III was afoot in England, had stiffened the French
passport system. Douglass, wishing to avoid any delay, wrote directly
to the Honorable George Dallas, United States Minister in London. That
gentleman refused to grant the passport at all on the ground that
Frederick Douglass was not a citizen of the United States. Douglass’
English friends gaped at the Ministry letter. The “man without a
country,” however, merely shrugged his shoulders.</p>

<p>“I forget too easily,” he said. “Now I’ll write to the French minister.”</p>

<p>Within a few days he had his answer—a “special permit” for Frederick
Douglass to visit “indefinitely” in any part of France. He was packed
to go when a cable from home arrived.</p>

<p>Little Annie was dead. The sudden loss of his baby daughter seemed to
climax all the pain and heartbreak of these months.</p>

<p>Heedless now of peril to himself, he took the first outgoing steamer
for Portland, Maine.</p>

<p>During the seventeen dragging days of his voyage, Douglass resolved
to make one stop even before going home. He had two graves now to
visit—Annie’s and John Brown’s. Annie too had loved the old man.
She would not mind if her father went directly to the house in the
Adirondacks.</p>

<p>No one was expecting the haggard dark man who descended from the train
at North Elba. He could not find a driver to take him up to John
Brown’s house. But from the livery stable he secured a horse. And so
he rode up through the Indian Pass gorge, between two overhanging
black walls, and came out under tall, white clouds above wine-colored
mountains rising in a blue mist. And there beside a still, green pool,
reflecting a white summit in its depths, he saw the house, with its
abandoned sawmill.</p>

<p>Mrs. Brown exhibited no surprise when he stood before her. Her
husband’s strength sustained her now. John Brown and the sons that she
had borne were no longer hers. They belonged to all the peoples of the
world. She greeted Frederick Douglass with a smile.</p>

<p>“I’ve been expecting you. Come in, my friend.” She talked quietly,
transmitting to him John Brown’s final words and admonitions. Then she
rose. “He left something for you.”</p>

<p>“Oh—John!” Until that moment he had listened without interrupting, his
eyes on the woman’s expressive face. The words broke from him unbidden.</p>

<p>At her gesture, he followed her up the bare stairs and into the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>
bedroom that had been hers and John Brown’s. The roof sloped down; he
had to stoop a little, standing beside her before the faded, furled
flag and rusty musket in the corner. She nodded her head, but could not
speak.</p>

<p>“For me?” Douglass’ words came in a whisper.</p>

<p>“He wanted you to have them.” She had turned to the chest of drawers
and handed him an envelope.</p>

<p>“He sent this in one of my letters. I was to give it to you when you
came.”</p>

<p>His hands were trembling as he drew forth the single white sheet on
which were written two lines.</p>

<p>“I know I have not failed because you live. Go forward, and some
day unfurl my flag in the land of the free. Farewell.” And then was
sprawled, “John Brown.”</p>

<p>He left the farmhouse with the musket in his hands. They had wrapped
the flag carefully, and he laid it across his shoulders. So many times
she had stood in the narrow doorway and watched John Brown ride away.
He had never looked back. But on this evening the rider paused when he
came to the top of the hill. He paused and looked back down into the
valley. His eyes found the spot where John Brown lay beside his sons.
She could not see his lips move, nor could she hear his words—words
the winds of the Adirondacks carried away:</p>

<p>“I promise you, John Brown. As I live, I promise you.”</p>

<p>Then he waved his hand to John Brown’s widow and was gone.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Douglass’ homecoming was weighted with sorrow. But in the mountains of
North Elba he had drawn strength. He was able to comfort the grieving
mother and the older children. For the first time in years he sat
quietly with his three fine sons. He told Rosetta how pretty she
was—like her mother in the days of the plum-colored wedding dress. The
family closed its ranks, coming very close together. Douglass managed
to remain in his house nearly a month before knowledge got around that
he was back in the country. Then a letter from William Lloyd Garrison
summoned him:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>The investigating committee appointed by Congress is being called off.
The net thrown out over the country yielded very little. As you know,
Captain Brown implicated nobody. To the end he insisted that he and he
alone was responsible for all that happened, that he had many friends,
but no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> instigators. In their efforts this committee has signally
failed. Now they have asked to be discharged. It is my opinion that
the men engaged in this investigation expect soon to be in rebellion
themselves, and not a rebellion for liberty, like that of John Brown,
but a rebellion for slavery. It is possible that they see that by
using their Senatorial power in search of rebels they may be whetting
a knife for their own throats. At any rate the country will soon be
relieved of the Congressional drag-net, so your liberty is no longer
threatened. We are planning a memorial to the grand old man here at
Tremont Temple and want you to speak. I know you’ll come.</p>
</div>

<p>Douglass hastened to Boston. The great mass meeting was more than
a memorial. It was a political and social conclave. Arguments and
differences of opinions were laid aside. They had a line of action.
Douglass saw that he had returned to the United States in time for
vital service.</p>

<p>“It enabled me to participate in the most important and memorable
presidential canvass ever witnesses in the United States,” he wrote,
looking back on it later, “and to labor for the election of a man who
in the order of events was destined to do a greater service to his
country and to mankind than any man who had gone before him in the
presidential office. It was a great thing to me to be permitted to bear
some humble part in this. It was a great thing to achieve American
independence when we numbered three millions, but it was a greater
thing to save this country from dismemberment and ruin when it numbered
thirty millions. He alone of all our presidents was to have the
opportunity to destroy slavery, and to lift into manhood millions of
his countrymen hitherto held as chattels and numbered with the beasts
of the field.”<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p>

<p>Not for nearly a hundred years was the country to see such a
presidential campaign as the one waged in 1860.</p>

<p>Garrison was drawn into the fray early. He mocked the Democrats when
they tore themselves apart at their convention in Charleston and
cheered “an independent Southern republic.” With the Democrats divided,
the Republicans would win; and into the Republican party now came the
Abolitionists—including William Lloyd Garrison. Douglass was very
happy.</p>

<p>A few weeks before the Republicans met in convention at Chicago,
Frederick Douglass at his home in Rochester had a caller. The man
identified himself as a tradesman from Springfield, Illinois.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span></p>

<p>“I’m here, lookin’ over the shippin’ of some goods, and I took the
liberty to come see you, Mr. Douglass,” he said, resting his hands on
his knotty knees.</p>

<p>“I’m very glad you did, sir.” Douglass waited for the man to reveal his
errand. He leaned forward.</p>

<p>“I ain’t a talkin’ man, Mr. Douglass. I’m much more for doin’.”
Douglass smiled his approval. The man lowered his tone. “More than once
I took on goods for Reverend Rankin.”</p>

<p>Douglass knew instantly what he meant. John Rankin was one of Ohio’s
most daring Underground Railroad agents. Douglass’ face lit up, and for
the second time he grasped his visitor’s rough hand.</p>

<p>“Any Rankin man is a hundredfold welcome in my house! What can I do for
you?”</p>

<p>“Jus’ listen and think on what I’m sayin’. We got a man out our way
we’re namin’ for president!”</p>

<p>The unexpected announcement caught Douglass up short.</p>

<p>“But I thought—” The man waved him to silence.</p>

<p>“Yep! I know. You Easterners got your man all picked out. I ain’t
sayin’ nothin’ ’bout Mr. Seward. I donno him. But the boys out West
<i>do</i> know Abe Lincoln—and we’re gonna back him!”</p>

<p>“Abe Lincoln?” Douglass was puzzled. “I never heard of him.”</p>

<p>“Nope? Well, it don’t matter. You will!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>He was gone then, leaving Frederick Douglass very thoughtful. The
Westerner was right. Senator William Seward, a tried and true
antislavery man, had been picked. The only question had been whether or
not the entire party would accept such a known radical.</p>

<p>Douglass reached Chicago the evening before the nominations were taken
up. He found the city decked out with fence rails which they said
“Honest Abe” had split. Evidently the people in the streets knew him,
the cab drivers and farmers in from the surrounding country. They stood
on street corners, buttonholed workmen hurrying home from work, and
they talked about “our man.”</p>

<p>Something was in the air. The convention was a bedlam. Even while the
thunder of applause that had greeted the nomination of William Seward
still hung in the far corners of the hall, Norman B. Judd, standing on
a high chair, nominated the man who habitually referred to himself as
a “jackleg lawyer.” The roar that greeted Lincoln’s name spread to the
packed street outside and kept up until the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> Seward men were silenced.
The cheering died away in the hall, as they began taking the third
ballot; but the steady roar in the street found an echo in the chamber,
when it was found that Lincoln had received two hundred thirty-one and
a half votes, lacking just one and a half votes for nomination. Then
Ohio gave its four votes to the “rail-splitter,” and Abraham Lincoln
became the Republican candidate for President of the United States.</p>

<p>Three candidates were in the field. Stephen A. Douglas, absolute leader
of the Democratic party in the West, had been nominated at Baltimore
after a bitter and barren fight at Charleston. The “seceding” Southern
wing of the party had nominated John C. Breckinridge. Three candidates
and one issue, <i>slavery</i>.</p>

<p>Stephen Douglas’ position was: Slavery or no slavery in any territory
is entirely the affair of the white inhabitants of such territory. If
they choose to have it, it is their right; if they choose not to have
it, they have a right to exclude or prohibit it. Neither Congress nor
the people of the Union, outside of said territory, have any right to
meddle with or trouble themselves about the matter.</p>

<p>The Democrats of Illinois laughed at the others for hailing forth the
Kentuckian. But Breckinridge represented the powerful slavocracy which
said: The citizen of any state has a right to migrate to any territory,
taking with him anything which is property by the law of his own
sure, and hold, enjoy, and be protected in the use of, such property
in said territory. And Congress is bound to furnish him protection
wherever necessary, with or without the co-operation of the territorial
legislature.</p>

<p>Abraham Lincoln’s voice had never been heard by the nation. Easterners
waited with misgivings to hear what the gangling backwoods lawyer
would say. He did not mince words: Slavery can exist only by virtue of
municipal law; and there is no law for it in the territories and no
power to enact one. Congress can establish or legalize slavery nowhere
but is bound to prohibit it in, or exclude it from, any and every
Federal territory, whenever and wherever there shall be necessity for
such exclusion or prohibition.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass was convinced not only by his words but by the
fact that Abraham Lincoln was so clearly the choice of the people who
knew him. He threw his pen and voice into the contest. Many of the
Abolitionists hung back; many an “old guard” politician sulked. Wendell
Phillips dug up evidence that Lincoln had supported enforcement of the
hated Fugitive Slave Law in Illinois.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p>

<p>But Douglass shook his leonine mane and campaigned throughout New York
State and in Boston, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Chicago—wherever Negroes
could vote.</p>

<p>“Here is a man who knows your weariness,” he told them. “This is your
opportunity to make your voice heard. Send Lincoln to the White House!
Strengthen his hand that he may fight for you!”</p>

<p>Fear gripped the South. They called Lincoln the “Black Republican.”
No longer was the North divided. Young Republicans organized marching
clubs and tramped through the city streets; torchlight processions
turned night into day: <i>John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the
grave</i>.... A new singing could be heard in the remotest pine woods
of the South:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Oh, freedom</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, freedom!</div>
  </div>
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">Oh, freedom ovah me—</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">An’ befo’ I’d be a slave</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">I’d be buried in mah grave</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">An’ go home to my Lawd</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">An’ be free.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>On November 6, Wendell Phillips congratulated Frederick Douglass: “For
the first time in our history, the slave has chosen a President of the
United States.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Garrison and Douglass decided to attend the inauguration together.</p>

<p>“I want to show you the White House, Douglass. You must see the Capitol
to which you have sent Lincoln.”</p>

<p>Douglass smiled. He had never been in Washington, and he was glad they
were together again.</p>

<p>Garrison was far from well. The winter months had tried his failing
strength. After electing Lincoln, the North drew back, in large part
disclaiming all participation in the “insult” to their “sister states”
in the South. The press took on a conciliatory tone toward slavery
and a corresponding bitterness toward antislavery men and measures.
From Massachusetts to Missouri, antislavery meetings were ruthlessly
stoned. The second John Brown Memorial at Tremont Temple was broken
up by a mob, some of the wealthiest citizens of Boston taking part in
the assault on Douglass and the other speakers. Howling gangs followed
Wendell Phillips for three days wherever he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> appeared on the pavements
of his native city, and hoodlums broke the windowpanes in Douglass’
Rochester printing shop.</p>

<p>These things weighed heavily on Garrison’s spirits. For a while he had
been uplifted by the belief that moral persuasion was winning over
large sections of the country. Now he saw them fearfully grasping their
possessions—repudiating everything except their “God-given” right to
pile up dollars.</p>

<p>But across the country stalked one more grim man. His face was turned
to the east—to the rising sun; his lanky, bony body rose endless on a
prop of worn, out-size shoes.</p>

<p>And deep in the hollows of the South, behind the lonesome pine trees
draped with moss, down in the corners of the cotton fields, in the
middle of the night—the slaves were whispering. And their words
rumbled like drums along the ground: “<i>Mistah Linkum is a-comin’!
Praise da Lawd!</i>”</p>

<p>Washington was an armed city. “The new President of the United States
will be inaugurated—” General Scott was as good as his word. But the
crowds did not cheer when Abraham Lincoln appeared. There was a hush,
as if all the world knew it was a solemn moment.</p>

<p>Douglass looked on the gaunt, strange beauty of that thin face—the
resemblance to John Brown was startling—and as he bared his head,
Douglass whispered, “He’s our man, John Brown. He’s our man!”</p>

<p>Amelia saw Frederick Douglass in the crowd. She tugged frantically at
Jack Haley’s arm.</p>

<p>“Look! Look!” she said. “It’s him!”</p>

<p>Jack, turning his head, recognized the man he had heard speak years ago
in Providence, Rhode Island. Older, yes, broader and grown in stature,
but undoubtedly it was the same head, the same wild, sweeping mane.</p>

<p>As the crowd began to disperse and Douglass turned, he felt a light
pull on his sleeve and looked down on a slight, white-haired woman
whose piquant upturned face and bright blue eyes were vaguely familiar.</p>

<p>“Mr. Douglass?” Her voice fluttered in her throat.</p>

<p>“At your service, ma’am.” Douglass managed to make a little bow, though
the crowd pressed upon them. Her eyes widened.</p>

<p>“Still the same lovely manners!” she said. At this the tall man at her
elbow spoke.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span></p>

<p>“Mr. Douglass, you will pardon us. I am Jack Haley, and this is Mrs.
Amelia Kemp.”</p>

<p>“Don’t you remember me—Frederick?” She smiled wistfully as she said
his name, and the years dissolved. He remembered the dahlias.</p>

<p>“Miss Amelia!” He took her hand, and his somber face lit up with
delight.</p>

<p>“Could you come with us? Have you a little time?” Her words were
bubbling over.</p>

<p>Douglass turned to Garrison, who was regarding the scene with some
misgiving. They two were far from safe in Washington.</p>

<p>“I think we’d better leave at once,” he said with a frown.</p>

<p>Douglass’ face showed his disappointment. He said, and it was clear he
meant it, “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Amelia.”</p>

<p>Jack Haley turned to Garrison. His voice was low.</p>

<p>“I understand the situation, sir. But if I drove you directly to our
house, I assure you we shall encounter no difficulties. We would be
honored.”</p>

<p>Once more Douglass looked hopefully at Garrison. The older man shrugged
his shoulders.</p>

<p>The fringed-top carryall stood at the curb. Garrison helped Amelia into
the back seat and sat down beside her. Douglass climbed into the front
seat with Jack. As Jack picked up the reins, Douglass grinned and said,
“I could drive, you know.”</p>

<p>Jack gave a short laugh. “I realize, Mr. Douglass, that we’re
uncivilized down here. But stranger things than this are seen on
Pennsylvania Avenue. Relax, we’ll get home all right.”</p>

<p>So they drove down the avenue past soldiers and visitors and
legislators, all intent upon their own affairs. Louisiana Avenue with
its wide greensward and early violets was loveliest of all.</p>

<p>For two days in the short period before the guns opened fire at Fort
Sumter, Frederick Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison rested from their
labors on a shaded side-street off Louisiana Avenue.</p>

<p>Up North the countryside was still locked in the hard rigors of winter,
but here spring was in the air. He walked out in the yard, and told
Miss Amelia about his big sons who kept the paper going during his many
absences.</p>

<p>Succulent odors rose like incense from Amelia’s kitchen—Maryland
fried chicken, served with snowy mounds of rice, popovers and cherry
pie—their fragrance hung in the air and brought her lodgers tumbling
down from their rooms to inquire, “What’s going on here?”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p>

<p>Amelia told them about her guests, swearing them to secrecy. They
tiptoed out into the hall and peeped into the living room. On the
second evening Miss Amelia gave in to their urgent requests.</p>

<p>“A few of my young friends to meet you, Frederick. You won’t mind?”
After supper they gathered round. Far into the night they asked
questions and talked together, the ex-slave and young Americans who
sorted mail, ran errands and wrote the letters of the legislators on
Capitol Hill.</p>

<p>They were the boys who would have to drag their broken bodies across
stubble fields, who would lie like filthy, grotesque rag dolls in the
mud. They were the girls who would be childless or widowed or old
before their lives had bloomed.</p>

<p>“It’s been wonderful here, Miss Amelia.” Douglas held her hand in
parting.</p>

<p>“I’ve been proud to have you, Frederick.” Her blue eyes looked up into
his, and Douglass saw her tears.</p>

<p>He stooped and kissed her on the soft, withered cheek.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>They said the war was inevitable. Madmen cannot hear words of reason.
On only one thing was Lincoln unswerving—to preserve the Union. As
concession after concession was made, it became more and more evident
that this was what the slaveholders did not want. They were sick to
death of the Union! In Georgia, Tennessee, North Carolina and Virginia
white men struggled against the octopus of slavery. They did all they
could to prevent the break. But the slavers had control—they had the
power, they had the money, and they had the slaves.</p>

<p>So there was war, and slaves were set to digging ditches and building
barricades.</p>

<p>From the beginning Frederick Douglass saw in the war the end of
slavery. Much happened the first two years to shake his faith.
Secretary of State William Seward instructed United States ministers
to say to the governments where they were stationed that “terminate
however it might, the status of no class of the people of the United
States would be changed by the rebellion; slaves will be slaves still,
and masters will be masters still.” General McClellan and General
Butler warned the slaves in advance that “if any attempt was made by
them to gain their freedom it would be suppressed with an iron hand.”
Douglass grew sick with despair when President Lincoln quickly withdrew
the emancipation proclamation made by General John C. Frémont in
Missouri. Union soldiers were even stationed about the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> farmhouses of
Virginia to guard the masters and help them hold their slaves.</p>

<p>The war was not going well. In the <cite>North Star</cite> and from the
platform, Douglass reminded the North that it was fighting with one
hand only, when it might strike effectually with two. The Northern
states fought with their soft white hand, while they kept their black
iron hand chained and helpless behind them. They fought the effect
while they protected the cause. The Union would never prosper in the
war until the Negro was enlisted, Douglass said.</p>

<p>On every side they howled him down.</p>

<p>“Give the blacks arms, and loyal men of the North will throw down their
guns and go home!”</p>

<p>“This is the white man’s country and the white man’s war!”</p>

<p>“It would inflict an intolerable wound upon the pride and spirit of
white soldiers to see niggers in the United States uniform.”</p>

<p>“Anyhow, niggers won’t fight—the crack of his old master’s whip will
send him scampering in terror from the field.”</p>

<p>They made jokes about it.</p>

<p>White men died at Bull Run, Ball’s Bluff, Big Bethel, and
Fredericksburg. The Union Army needed more soldiers. They began
drafting men—white men. In blind rage the whites turned on the
helpless blacks.</p>

<p>“Why should we fight for you?” they screamed. On the streets of New
York, black men and women were beaten, their workshops and stores
destroyed, their homes burned. They burned the Colored Orphan Asylum
in New York. Not all the children could be dragged from the blazing
building.</p>

<p>Douglass wrote letters to Congress and got up petitions. “Let us
fight!” he pleaded. “Give us arms!”</p>

<p>He pointed out that the South was sustaining itself and its army with
Negro labor. At last General Butler at Fort Monroe announced the policy
of treating the slaves as “contrabands” to be made useful to the Union
cause. General Phelps, in command at Carrollton, Louisiana, advocated
the same plan. The story of how the slaves flocked into these camps,
how they worked, how they were glad to sustain their half-starved
bodies on scraps left over by the soldiers, how they endured any and
all hardships for this opportunity to do something to “hep Massa Linkum
win da war” cannot be told here. But it convinced the administration
that the Negro could be useful.</p>

<p>The second step was to give Negroes a peculiar costume which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> should
distinguish them from soldiers and yet mark them as part of the loyal
force. Finally so many Negroes presented themselves that it was
proposed to give the laborers something better than spades and shovels
with which to defend themselves in case of emergency.</p>

<p>“Still later it was proposed to make them soldiers,” Douglass wrote,
“but soldiers without blue uniform, soldiers with a mark upon them to
show that they were inferior to other soldiers; soldiers with a badge
of degradation upon them. However, once in the army as a laborer, once
there with a red shirt on his back and a pistol in his belt, the Negro
was not long in appearing on the field as a soldier. But still, he was
not to be a soldier in the sense, and on an equal footing, with white
soldiers. It was given out that he was not to be employed in the open
field with white troops ... doing battle and winning victories for the
Union cause ... in the teeth of his old masters; but that he should
be made to garrison forts in yellow-fever and otherwise unhealthy
localities of the South, to save the health of the white soldiers;
and, in order to keep up the distinction further, the black soldiers
were to have only half the wages of the white soldiers, and were to be
commanded entirely by white commissioned officers.”</p>

<p>Negroes all over the North looked at each other with drawn faces.</p>

<p>Almost the cup was too bitter. But up from the South came stories of
how black fugitives were offering themselves as slaves to the Union
armies—of the terrible retaliation meted out to them if caught—of how
the Northern armies were falling back.</p>

<p>Then President Lincoln gave Governor Andrew of Massachusetts permission
to raise two colored regiments. The day the news broke, Douglass came
home waving his paper in the air. Anna’s face blanched. Up from the
table rose her two sons, Lewis and Charles.</p>

<p>“We’ll be the first!” They dashed off to sign up. Young Frederic was in
Buffalo that morning. When he got back, he heard where they had gone,
and turned to follow them.</p>

<p>“Wait! Wait!” The mother’s cry was heartbroken.</p>

<p>His father too said, “Wait.” Then Douglass explained.</p>

<p>“This is only the first, my son. We’ll have other regiments. There will
be many regiments before the war is won. We must recruit black men from
every state in our country—South as well as North.” He looked at his
tall son and sighed. “Unfortunately, I am known. I would be stopped
before I could reach them in the South. Here is a job for some brave
man.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span></p>

<p>They faced each other calmly, father and son, and neither was afraid.</p>

<p>“I understand, sir. I will go!”</p>

<p>A few evenings later, before an overflow audience at Corinthian Hall
in Rochester, Frederick Douglass delivered an address which may be
placed beside Patrick Henry’s in Virginia. It appeared later in leading
journals throughout the North and West under the caption “Men of Color,
to Arms!”</p>

<p>“Action! Action, not criticism, is the plain duty of this hour. Words
are now useful only as they stimulate to blows. The office of speech
now is only to point out when, where, and how to strike to the best
advantage.” This was Douglass the spellbinder, Douglass, who had lifted
thousands cheering to their feet in England, Ireland, and Scotland.
“From East to West, from North to South, the sky is written all over
‘Now or Never.’ Liberty won by white men alone would lose half its
luster.... Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.”</p>

<p>The applause swept across the country. White men read these words and
were shamed in their prejudices; poor men read them and thanked God
for Frederick Douglass; black men read them and hurried to recruiting
offices.</p>

<p>They were in the crowd on Boston Common the morning the Fifty-fourth
Massachusetts marched away—a father and a mother come to see their two
sons off to war. Douglass was not thinking of the credit due him for
the formation of the first Negro regiment. He was remembering how Lewis
had always wanted a pony and the way Charlie always left his shoes in
the middle of the floor, to be stumbled over. He tried to stay the
trembling in Anna’s arm by pressing it close to his side. He wished he
had somehow managed to get that pony.</p>

<p>The soldiers were standing at ease in the street when Charlie saw her.
He waved his hand, and though he did not yell, she saw his lips form
the words, “Hi, Mom!” She saw him nudge his brother and then—</p>

<p>They were marching, holding their colors high, the sun glinting on
polished bayonets and reflected in their eyes. They marched away behind
their gallant Captain Shaw, and as they went they sang a song:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave</div>
    <div class="verse indent4">But his soul goes marching on.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p>
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Fourteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Fourteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Came January 1, 1863</i><br>
</p>


<p>The tall man’s footsteps made no sound upon the thick rug. Muffled and
hushed, his weary pacing left no mark upon the warp and woof underneath
his feet. No sign at all of all the hours he had been walking back and
forth, no sound.</p>

<p>To save the Union—this was the aim and purpose of everything he did.
He had offered concession after concession—he had sent men out to die
to hold the Union together and he had seen the horror of their dying.
And yet no end in sight. Could it be that God had turned his face away?
Was He revolted by the stench of slavery? Was this the measure He
required?</p>

<p>The President had sought to reason with them. In his last annual
message to Congress he had proposed a constitutional amendment by which
any state abolishing slavery by or before the year 1900 should be
entitled to full compensation from the Federal government. So far he
had postponed the day when a slave owner must take a loss. Nothing had
come of the proposal—nothing.</p>

<p>To save the Union! Would emancipation drive the border states into
revolt? Would it let loose a terror in the night that would destroy and
rape and pillage all the land? He had been amply warned. Or were the
Abolitionists right? George Thompson, the Englishman, had been very
convincing; the President had talked with William Lloyd Garrison, who
all these years had never wavered from his stand; and in this very room
he had received the Negro, Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>Douglass had stated his case so well, so completely, so wrapped in
logic that the President had found himself defending his position to
the ex-slave. He had sat quietly, listened patiently, and then spoken.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p>

<p>“It is the only way, Mr. Lincoln, the only way to save the Union,”
Douglass said.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Outside, the day was dark and lowering. The sun hid behind banks of
muddy clouds; dirty snow lay heaped against the Capitol. The tall
man dropped to his knees and buried his haggard face in his hands.
“Thy will be done, oh God, Thy will!” He, Abraham Lincoln, fourteenth
president of the United States, would stake his honor, his good name,
all that he had to give, to preserve the Union. And down through the
ages men would judge him by one day’s deed. He rose from his knees,
turned and pulled the cord that summoned his secretary.</p>

<p>In Boston they were waiting. This was the day when the government
was to set its face against slavery. Though the conditions on which
the President had promised to withhold the proclamation had not been
complied with, there was room for doubt and fear. Mr. Lincoln was a
man of tender heart and boundless patience; no man could tell to what
lengths he might go for peace and reconciliation. An emancipation
proclamation would end all compromises with slavery, change the entire
conduct of the war, give it a new aim.</p>

<p>They held watch-meetings in all the colored churches on New Year’s Eve
and went on to a great mass meeting in Tremont Temple, which extended
through the day and evening. A grand jubilee concert in Music Hall was
scheduled for the afternoon. They expected the President’s proclamation
to reach the city by noon. But the day wore on, and fears arose that it
might not, after all, be forthcoming.</p>

<p>The orchestra played Beethoven’s <cite>Fifth Symphony</cite>, the chorus
sang Handel’s <cite>Hallelujah Chorus</cite>, Ralph Waldo Emerson read his
“<cite>Boston Hymn</cite>,” written for the occasion—but still no word. A line of
messengers was set up between the telegraph office and the platform of
Tremont Temple. William Wells Brown, the Reverend Mr. Grimes, Miss Anna
Dickinson, Frederick Douglass—all had said their lines. But speaking
or listening to speeches was not the thing for which people had come
together today. They were waiting.</p>

<p>Eight, nine, ten o’clock came and went, and still no word. Frederick
Douglass walked to the edge of the platform. He stood there without
saying a word, and before the awful stillness of his helplessness the
stirrings of the crowd quieted. His voice was hoarse.</p>

<p>“Ladies and gentlemen—I know the time for argument has passed. Our
ears are not attuned to logic or the sound of many words. It is the
trumpet of jubilee which we await.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p>

<p>“Amen, God of our fathers, hear!” The fervent prayer had come from a
black man who had dropped to his knees on the platform behind Douglass.
There was a responding murmur from the crowd. Douglass stood a moment
with his head bowed. Then he continued:</p>

<p>“We are watching for the dawn of a new day. We are waiting for the
answer to the agonizing prayers of centuries. We—” His eyes were
caught by a movement in the crowd packed around the doors. He held his
breath. A man ran down the aisle.</p>

<p>“It’s coming—It’s coming over the wires! Now!” he shouted.</p>

<p>The shout that went up from the crowd carried the glad tidings to
the streets. Men and women screamed—they tossed their hats into the
air—strangers embraced one another, weeping. Garrison, standing in
the gallery, was cheered madly; Harriet Beecher Stowe, her bonnet
awry, tears streaming down her cheeks, was lifted to a bench. After a
while they quieted down to hear the reading of the text ... “are, and
henceforward shall be, free.” Then the Reverend Charles Rue, the black
man behind Douglass, lifted his magnificent voice and led them as they
sang,</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
  <div class="stanza">
    <div class="verse indent0">“Sound the loud timbrel o’er Egypt’s dark sea,</div>
    <div class="verse indent0">Jehovah hath triumphed, his people are free.”</div>
  </div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Cables carried the news across the Atlantic. Crowds thronged the
streets of London and Liverpool. Three thousand workmen of Manchester,
many of them present sufferers from the cotton famine, adopted by
acclamation an address to President Lincoln congratulating him on the
Proclamation. George Thompson led a similar meeting in Lancashire, and
in Exeter Hall a great demonstration meeting was addressed by John
Stuart Mill.</p>

<p>But it was from the deep, deep South that the sweetest music came.
It was an old song—old as the first man, lifting himself from the
mire and slime of some dark river bed and feeling the warm sun upon
his face, old as the song they sang crossing the Red Sea, old as the
throbbing of drums deep in the jungles, old as the song of all men
everywhere who would be free. It was a new song, the loveliest thing
born this side of the seas, fresh and verdant and young, full as the
promise of this new America—the Delta’s rich, black earth; the tall,
thick trees upon a thousand hills; the fairy, jeweled beauty of the
bayous; the rolling plains of the Mississippi. Black folks made a song
that day.</p>

<p>They crouched in their cabins, hushed and still. Old men and women
who had prayed so long—broken, close to the end, they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> waited for
this glorious thing. Young men and women, leashed in their strength,
twisted in bondage—they waited. Mothers grasped their babies in their
arms—waiting.</p>

<p>Some of them listened for a clap of thunder that would rend the world
apart. Some strained their eyes toward the sky, waiting for God upon
a cloud to bring them freedom. Anything was possible, they whispered,
waiting.</p>

<p>They recognized His shining angels when they came: a tired and dirty
soldier, in a torn and tattered uniform; a grizzled old man hobbling
out from town; a breathless woman, finding her way through the swamp to
tell them; a gaunt, white “cracker” risking his life to let them know;
a fleet-footed black boy, running, running down the road. These were
the messengers who brought them word.</p>

<p>And the song of joy went up. Free! Free! Free! Black men and women
lifted their quivering hands and shouted across the fields. The rocks
and trees, the rivers and the mountains echoed their voices—the
universe was glad the morning freedom’s song rang in the South.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span></p>

<h2 class="nobreak" id="Part_IV">Part IV</h2>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>TOWARD MORNING</i><br>
<br>
The seeds of the Declaration of Independence are slowly ripening.<br>
</p>
<p class="right">
—<span class="smcap">John Quincy Adams</span><br>
</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Fifteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Fifteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed</i><br>
</p>


<p>“When the Hebrews were emancipated they were told to take spoil from
the Egyptians. When the serfs of Russia were emancipated, they were
given three acres of ground upon which they could live and make a
living. But not so when our slaves were emancipated. They were sent
away empty-handed, without money, without friends, and without a foot
of land to stand upon. Old and young, sick and well were turned loose
to the open sky, naked to their enemies.”</p>

<p>Fifteen years later Douglass was to say this to a tense audience, their
large eyes, so bright that “freedom morning,” veiled again with pain.
If only Lincoln had been spared! How many times in the months and years
had they harked back to that towering figure and asked, “<i>Why?</i>”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It is true that Lincoln’s freeing of the slaves was a war measure, but
with the enactment of that measure the President steered the Ship of
State into uncharted waters. To whom could he turn for counsel? Not to
a Cabinet dolefully prophesying disaster; not to a Secretary of War who
had considered the occupation of Sumter by United States soldiers a
deadly insult to the Southern states; not to a General who vacillated,
delayed, quarreled and called his own men “a confused mob, entirely
demoralized.”</p>

<p>Lincoln sent for Frederick Douglass. It was proof of how far and how
fast he was traveling. He had no precedent. Everything the President
read or heard in his day treated all colored peoples as less than
human. He was born and nurtured in the church which said fervent
prayers of thanks that slavers “tore the savage from the wilds of
Africa and brought him to Christianity.” The unquestioned inferiority<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>
of a black man was in the very air that Lincoln breathed. And yet he
turned to Douglass.</p>

<p>He did not receive the dark man in the office of the Executive Mansion,
but out on the back porch. There were times when the tinted walls,
drapes and heavy rugs of the imposing house stifled this “common man”
from the West. At such times he chose the porch, with its vista of
green.</p>

<p>“Sit down, Mr. Douglass,” he said, motioning to a wide, easy chair. “I
want to talk to you.”</p>

<p>Mainly he wished to confer that afternoon about the best means, outside
the Army, to induce slaves in the rebel states to come within Federal
lines.</p>

<p>“I fear that a peace might be forced upon me which would leave the
former slaves in a kind of bondage worse even than that they have
known.” Then he added, his voice heavy with disappointment, “They are
not coming to us as rapidly and in as large numbers as I had hoped.”</p>

<p>Douglass replied that probably many obstacles were being placed in
their path.</p>

<p>The President nodded his head. He was troubled in heart and mind. He
said he was being accused of protracting the war beyond its legitimate
object and of failing to make peace when he might have done so to
advantage. He saw the dangers of premature peace, but mainly he wanted
to prepare for what lay ahead when peace did come, early or late.</p>

<p>“Four millions suddenly added to the country’s population!” Lincoln
said earnestly. “What can we do, Douglass?” Before Douglass could
reply, the President leaned forward, his eyes intent. “I understand you
oppose every suggestion for colonization.”</p>

<p>“That is true, Mr. Lincoln. Colonization is not the answer.”</p>

<p>“Why?”</p>

<p>“These people are not Africans. They know nothing about
Africa—whatever roots they had have been destroyed. We were born here,
in America.”</p>

<p>The President sighed.</p>

<p>“I realize our responsibility, Douglass. We cannot set back the clock.
We brought your people here, we made them work for us. We owe them for
all these years of labor. But the fact remains that they are alien and
apart. Can they ever fit into the life of this country?”</p>

<p>Douglass spoke very gently.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p>

<p>“This is the only land we know, Mr. Lincoln. We have tilled its fields,
we have cleared its forests, we have built roads and bridges. This
is our home. We are alien and apart only because we have been forced
apart.” Then he began to tell the President of Negroes who had been
living and working in free states. He told of artisans and skilled
craftsmen, of bakers, shoemakers and clockmakers; he told about
schoolteachers, doctors, Negroes who, after being educated in Europe,
had chosen to return.</p>

<p>Mr. Lincoln listened with growing amazement. Perhaps he thought to
himself, <i>If only all of them were like this man Douglass!</i> But
being the simple, honest soul he was, it is certain another thought
came after, <i>Few men are like this Douglass!</i></p>

<p>They sat together through the long summer afternoon, and worked out a
plan. Other callers were turned away. “The President can see no one,”
they were told.</p>

<p>They decided that Douglass would organize a band of colored scouts who
would go into the South, beyond the Union Army lines, and bring the
slaves together as free workers.</p>

<p>“They will be paid something. I can’t say what.”</p>

<p>“They will come, sir!”</p>

<p>From time to time Douglass scribbled a note of instruction for the
President’s aides. Neither noticed the time. They were only concerned
in mapping out a clear course of action. At last the President leaned
back and the visitor gathered up his papers.</p>

<p>“From here,” Lincoln said, “we’ll move as we must. You will have to—”</p>

<p>His secretary came out on the porch. “Sir!” Lincoln nodded his head.
“A courier has just arrived. He brings a communication from General
Stephenson.”</p>

<p>Lincoln jerked himself erect.</p>

<p>“Show him out here!”</p>

<p>There was despair in the way the President pressed his hand against his
forehead.</p>

<p>“It is bad news,” he explained. “Otherwise they would have wired.”</p>

<p>“I’ll go, sir!” Douglass rose to his feet. Lincoln’s tall form lifted
itself. He looked out across the lawn without seeing it.</p>

<p>“Navy guns have been bombarding Fort Wagner for several days. We were
planning an attack. Surely—” He stopped as the two men came out on the
porch.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p>

<p>The courier was only a boy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform
was streaked and spattered. He swayed a little as he bowed and extended
a letter.</p>

<p>“General Stephenson sends his greetings, sir.”</p>

<p>Lincoln’s eyes were on the boy as his shaking fingers tore at the
envelope.</p>

<p>“Why do you not come from General Strong?”</p>

<p>“General Stephenson is now in command of the two brigades.” He stopped,
but the President’s eyes still questioned him and he added, “General
Strong and Colonel Putnam have been killed.”</p>

<p>Then Lincoln looked down at the single sprawled sheet. His lips began
to move, and some of his words were distinct enough for Douglass to
hear.</p>

<p>“On the night of July 18 we moved on Fort Wagner ... the Sixth
Connecticut, Forty-eighth Infantry New York, Third New Hampshire,
Seventy-sixth Pennsylvania, Ninth Maine....” He read on, then cried
out, “Douglass! Listen to this!”</p>

<p>“The honor of leading the charge was given to the Fifty-fourth
Massachusetts. I must report, sir, that these black soldiers advanced
without flinching and held their ground in the face of blasting fire
which mowed them down cruelly. Only a remnant of the thousand men can
be accounted for. Their commander, Colonel Robert Shaw, is missing. We
had counted on aid from the guns of the fleet—troops in the rear could
not—” The President stopped.</p>

<p>Douglass’ breath had escaped from his tense body in a groan. Now he
gasped.</p>

<p>“I must go—Forgive me. I must go to my wife!”</p>

<p>The President took a step toward him, understanding and concern in his
face. “You mean—?”</p>

<p>“Our sons—Lewis and Charles—in the Fifty-fourth.”</p>

<p>Lincoln laid his hand on Douglass’ arm, then spoke quickly to his
secretary.</p>

<p>“See that the courier has food and rest. Wire General Stephenson for
the list.”</p>

<p>Then he was walking to the door with Douglass, his arm through his.</p>

<p>“Extend to your wife my deepest sympathy. I commend you both to God,
who alone can give you strength. Keep me informed. You will hear from
me.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p>

<p>The news of the defeat ran on ahead of him. Anna was standing in the
hall, waiting. He took her in his arms, and for a few moments neither
spoke. Then she said, “There is no word—yet.”</p>

<p>Days passed, and they told themselves that no news was good news.
Gradually names were made public. Horace Greeley hailed the
Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as the “black phalanx.” Newspapers
throughout the North said that the Negro soldier had “proven himself.”
Southern papers used different words to tell the story, but they
verified the fact that it was black bodies which filled the hastily dug
trenches all around Fort Wagner. They had come upon a white body which
was identified as the commander. It was said the order had been given
to “dump him among his niggers!”</p>

<p>Anna Douglass wrote a letter to Robert Shaw’s mother, who lived in
Boston.</p>

<p>“The struggle is now over for your brave son. Take comfort in the
thought that he died as he lived, that he lies with those who loved him
so devotedly.”</p>

<p>And still no word of Charles and Lewis.</p>

<p>Douglass did not tell Anna about a letter he had written to Abraham
Lincoln. But when the reply came, he showed her the enclosed note,
which read:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p><span class="smcap">To whom it may concern</span>:</p>

<p>The bearer of this, Frederick Douglass, is known to us as a loyal,
free man, and is hence entitled to travel unmolested.</p>

<p>We trust he will be recognized everywhere as a free man and a
gentleman.</p>
</div>

<p class="center">
Respectfully,<br>
</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">A. Lincoln</span>, <span class="smcap">President</span><br>
<span style="margin-right: 5.5em;"><i>I. K. Usha, Secretary</i></span><br>
</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>August 10, 1863</p>
</div>

<p>Anna lifted her eyes in a question.</p>

<p>“I’m going to South Carolina.”</p>

<p>She pressed her hand against her shaking lips.</p>

<p>“They’ll kill you—too!” she said. He shook his head.</p>

<p>“Our troops are encamped on the islands in and about Charleston harbor.
The regiments are mixed up. There are so many wounded that I can be a
real help by straightening out the record. Many homes do not know.” And
he kissed her.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p>

<p>She watched him shave off his beard. She gave him a large box of food.</p>

<p>“I’ll find the boys!” His assurance cheered her.</p>

<p>He did find them—each on a different island—among the wounded.
Charles thought him simply another figment of his feverish dreams.
Lewis had been trying to get word out.</p>

<p>The news ran along the cots and out into the swamps:</p>

<p>“Frederick Douglass is here!”</p>

<p>Their cause was not lost.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>There were times that fall when strong hearts quailed. Criticism
against Abraham Lincoln mounted. Finally it became clear that Lincoln
would not be re-elected by the politicians, the bankers, big business,
or the press. The campaign of 1864 was, therefore, waged in country
stores, at crossroads, from the backs of carts driving along city
streets, in public squares and on church steps.</p>

<p>The young Republican party now had to face a completely united
Democratic party which came forward with the story that the war was a
failure. They chose the dismissed General George B. McClellan as their
candidate and wrapped him in the ambiguous mist of an abused hero. But
they reckoned without the inspired tactics of his successor, Ulysses S.
Grant. The tide turned. “Lincoln’s man” was doing the job. Now Sherman
was “marching to the sea,” and the backbone of the Confederacy was
broken.</p>

<p>The people returned Abraham Lincoln to the White House.</p>

<p>With Lincoln safe, Douglass took the stump for the strengthening of the
Emancipation Proclamation. The next step was to pass the Thirteenth
Amendment, abolishing slavery by law.</p>

<p>In October, Douglass and John Langston called a National Convention of
Colored Men for a four-day session in Syracuse. People still could not
believe that the war would end in complete emancipation of all slaves.
Douglass called upon this convention of free artisans, craftsmen and
laborers in the free Northern states to take their place inside the
governmental framework.</p>

<p>“Events more mighty than men—eternal Providence, all-wide and
all-controlling,” he told them, “have placed us in new relations to
the government and the government to us. What that government is to
us today, and what it will be tomorrow, is made evident by a very few
facts. Look at them, colored men. Slavery in the District of Columbia
is abolished forever; slavery in all the territories of the United
States is abolished forever; the foreign slave trade, with its ten
thousand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> revolting abominations, is rendered impossible; slavery in
ten states of the Union is abolished forever; slavery in the five
remaining states is as certain to follow the same fate as the night
is to follow the day. The independence of Haiti is recognized; her
minister sits beside our “Prime Minister,” Mr. Seward, and dines at
his table in Washington, while colored men are excluded from the cars
in Philadelphia ... a black man’s complexion in Washington, in the
presence of the Federal government, is less offensive than in the
City of Brotherly Love. Citizenship is no longer denied us under this
government.”</p>

<p>The minutes of the convention were sent to President Lincoln. In
December Lincoln laid the Thirteenth Amendment before Congress, and
in January, 1865, slavery was forever abolished from any part of the
United States “or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”</p>

<p>Tirelessly, ceaselessly, Lincoln weighed every move he made. No harsh
words, no condemnation—he recognized human weakness. “<i>Our</i>
responsibility,” he said. Not the South’s alone, not merely the
slaveholder’s. He did not cant of “sins” and “virtues.”</p>

<p>He read the appeal addressed to Governor Shepley by the “free men of
color” in New Orleans, asking to be allowed to “register and vote.”
They reminded him of their defense of New Orleans against the British
under General Jackson, and declared their present loyalty to the Union.
In March he wrote the following letter to the newly elected Governor
Hahn:</p>

<div class="blockquot">
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Executive Mansion</span>, <span class="smcap">Washington</span><br>
<br>
March 13, 1864<br>
</p>

<p><i>Honorable Michael Hahn</i></p>

<p><span class="smcap">My dear Sir</span>: In congratulating you on having fixed your name
in history as the first Free State Governor of Louisiana, now you are
about to have a convention which, among other things, will probably
define the elective franchise, I barely suggest, for your private
consideration, whether some of the colored people may not be let on,
as for instance, the very intelligent, and especially those who have
fought gallantly in our ranks. They would probably help in some trying
time in the future to keep the jewel of Liberty in the family of
freedom. But this is only suggestion, not to the public, but to you
alone.</p>

<p class="center">
Truly yours,
</p>

<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">A. Lincoln</span><a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a><br>
</p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p>
<p>Long afterward Douglass wondered if it was some awful presentiment
that made his heart so heavy on the second Inauguration Day. Abraham
Lincoln’s voice lacked the resonance and liquid sweetness with which
men stirred vast audiences. He spoke slowly, carefully, as if each word
were a gift of himself to them—his last words to his people.</p>

<p>“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the
right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the
work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who
shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to
do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among
ourselves and with all nations.”</p>

<p>A blackness engulfed Douglass for a time. He was unconscious of having
pushed forward. The ceremonies over, there was jostling and movement
all around him. Then over the heads of all the crowd, he saw President
Lincoln looking at him—he saw his face light up with a smile of
welcome. Douglass started toward him when he was stopped by something
else. Andrew Johnson, the Vice-President, stood beside Lincoln.</p>

<p>“Mr. Lincoln touched Mr. Johnson and pointed me out to him,” Douglass
wrote, describing the incident. “The first expression which came to his
face, and which I think was the true index of his heart, was one of
bitter contempt and aversion. Seeing that I observed him, he tried to
assume a more friendly appearance, but it was too late; it is useless
to close the door when all within has been seen. His first glance was
the frown of the man; the second was the bland and sickly smile of the
demagogue.”<a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p>

<p>He turned aside, again engulfed in gloom. “Whatever Andrew Johnson may
be,” he thought, “he certainly is no friend of my race.”</p>

<p>The same evening in the spacious East Room, at such an affair as he had
never in his own country been privileged to attend before, he tried to
put aside his misgivings. He simply ignored the startled glances turned
in his direction. His card of admission was beyond question.</p>

<p>Even in this most brilliant of gatherings, Frederick Douglass was an
impressive figure. He was faultlessly groomed. His magnificent head
towered over any crowd, and he moved with poise and dignity. It is no
wonder that the President saw him standing in line among the others.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p>

<p>“Ah! Here comes my friend Douglass,” Lincoln said playfully.</p>

<p>Taking Douglass by the hand he said, “I saw you in the crowd today,
listening to my speech. Did you like it?”</p>

<p>Douglass smiled, a little embarrassed. He had no desire to hold up the
line.</p>

<p>“Mr. Lincoln, I mustn’t detain you with my opinions,” he almost
whispered. “There are a thousand people waiting to shake hands with
you.”</p>

<p>Lincoln was in an almost jovial mood that evening. He laughed softly.</p>

<p>“Nonsense,” he said, “stop a little, Douglass. There’s no man in the
country whose opinion I value more than yours. I really want to know
what you thought of it.”</p>

<p>Douglass tried to tell him. In the years to come he wished he had found
better words.</p>

<p>“Mr. Lincoln, your words today were sacred,” he said. “They will never
die.”</p>

<p>Lincoln seemed satisfied. His face lit up.</p>

<p>“I’m glad you liked it.”</p>

<p>Douglass rejoiced that Lincoln had his hour—an hour when he was bathed
in joyful tears of gratitude. It happened on a soft, spring day in
Richmond. General Weitzel had taken the city a few days before, with
the Twenty-ninth Connecticut Colored Regiment at his back. Now on this
April morning, the battered city was very still. White people who could
leave had fled. The others shut themselves inside, behind closed doors
and drawn shades. But lilacs were blooming in their yards.</p>

<p>It was a Negro soldier who saw the little rowboat pull up at the dock
and a tall gaunt man, leading a little boy, step out. He waved back the
sailors, who moved to follow him.</p>

<p>“We’ll go alone,” he said. Taking the little boy by the hand, he
started up the embankment to the street.</p>

<p>“Which way to our headquarters?” he asked the soldier. The soldier had
never seen Abraham Lincoln, but he recognized him. He saluted smartly.</p>

<p>“I’ll direct you, sir,” he offered. He was trembling. The President
smiled and shook his head.</p>

<p>“Just tell me.”</p>

<p>It was straight ahead up the street—Jefferson Davis’ mansion. He
couldn’t miss it. The soldier watched him go. He wanted to shout.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> He
wanted to run—to spread the news—but he could not leave his post.</p>

<p>No conquering hero he—just a tired man, walking down the street, his
deeply lined, sad face lifted to the few trees showing their spring
leaves. All around him lay the ravages of war. Suddenly a black boy
turned into the way and stared.</p>

<p>“Glory! Hit’s Mistah Lincoln!” he yelled.</p>

<p>And then they came from all the by-streets and the lanes. They came
shouting his name, flinging their hats into the air, waving their
hands. The empty streets thronged with black folks. They stretched
their hands and called out:</p>

<p>“Gawd bless yo’, Mistah Lincolm!”</p>

<p>“T’ank yo’ kin’ly, Mistah Lincolm!”</p>

<p>“T’ank yo’! Praise de Lawd!”</p>

<p>An old man dropped upon his knees and kissed his hand.</p>

<p>They saw the tears streaming down Lincoln’s face, and a hush fell over
those nearest him as he laid his hand upon the bowed white head, then
stooped and helped the old man to his feet.</p>

<p>“God bless you—God keep you all!” Lincoln could say no more at the
moment. They allowed him to move along his way, but by the time he had
reached his destination as far as he could see the streets were black.</p>

<p>They waited while he went inside—waiting, cheering, and singing at
intervals. When he came out he stood on the high steps and lifted
his hands for silence. Many of them dropped on their knees and all
listened, their faces turned to him as to the sun. He spoke simply,
sharing their joy. He accepted their devotion, but he said, “God has
made you free.” They knew he had come from God.</p>

<p>“Although you have been deprived of your God-given rights by your
so-called masters, you are now as free as I am; and if those that claim
to be your superiors do not know that you are free, take the sword and
bayonet and teach them that you are—for God created all men free,
giving to each the same rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness.”</p>

<p>He went away with their voices in his ears. A few days later came
Appomattox; and Lincoln, his face flushed, his eyes bright, his
strength renewed by secret wells of energy, covered his desk with plans
for reconstruction. Not a day to lose, not a moment. The wounds must be
healed, a better, stronger nation rise.</p>

<p>The President called his Cabinet together for April 14, then sent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> a
wire off to William Lloyd Garrison asking him to go to Fort Sumter for
the raising of the Stars and Stripes there. Garrison joyfully obeyed.
With him were Henry Ward Beecher and George Thompson, antislavery men
who could now rejoice.</p>

<p>The flag was raised, and singing filled the air; the waters were
covered with flowers, and the guns fired their triumphant salute. They
were on the steamer headed farther south when, at Beaufort, they were
handed a telegram.</p>

<p>Abraham Lincoln was dead!</p>

<p>“<i>I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.</i>”</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Sixteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Sixteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Moving forward</i><br>
</p>


<p>The American Anti-Slavery Society disbanded and its agents were
withdrawn from the fields. The last number of the <cite>Liberator</cite> came
out.</p>

<p>“The object for which the <cite>liberator</cite> was commenced thirty-five
years ago having been gloriously consummated—” wrote the white-haired
editor. He could now close his office. The slaves were free—his job
was finished. Garrison sailed for England and the Continent.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass, dragging himself through the weeks, hardly heeded
what was being done. He caught some words of Wendell Phillips’
passionate plea: the Thirteenth Amendment had not yet become law;
even after ratification it had to be carried out. But he had taken no
part in the discussions. His occupation was gone and his salary—the
Anti-Slavery Society had paid him about five hundred dollars a
year—cut off. Lewis came home. Frederic was working with the
Freedman’s Bureau in Mississippi. Douglass made sporadic attempts to
think of how he would earn a living. The newspaper hung heavy on his
hands. An idea occurred to him. With the few thousand dollars Anna had
saved from the sales of his book, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>, he
had best buy a farm, settle down and earn an honest living by tilling
the soil.</p>

<p>But nothing seemed of any real importance.</p>

<p>“John Brown and Abraham Lincoln!” He lay awake at night linking the two
names. Time seemed endless.</p>

<p>Yet it was only the latter part of June when President Johnson made
Benjamin F. Perry, former member of the Confederate legislature, the
Provisional Governor of South Carolina. Perry promptly put things back
the way they had been “before Lincoln.” He conferred<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> suffrage upon all
citizens who had been legal voters prior to Secession. He called for an
election by these people of delegates to a Constitutional Convention to
be held in September. In his opening address as Provisional Governor,
the Honorable Mr. Perry stated his platform very clearly. “This is a
white man’s government, and intended for white men only.”</p>

<p>Horace Greeley reported the facts in the <cite>Tribune</cite> together with a
grim editorial.</p>

<p>Douglass shook with rage. His anger was directed not at the Southern
Provisional Governor but at the man who now sat in Abraham Lincoln’s
place. For a moment his hate for Andrew Johnson consumed every rational
thought. Then his mind began to clear—to race, to leap forward. The
moment broke his lethargy.</p>

<p>“John Brown and Lincoln—yes!” He spoke aloud. “But I’m living.
<i>I</i> am still here!” He struck the desk with his fist. “And by God
we’ll fight!”</p>

<p>Then, seizing his pen, he swept aside the papers that had been
gathering dust, and on a clean white page he began to write.</p>

<p>“The liberties of the American people are dependent upon the
ballot-box, the jury box and the cartridge box.... Freedmen must have
the ballot if they would retain their freedom!”</p>

<p>His words sounded across the country. In many instances they filled
people, already worn out and war-weary, with dismay. The ballot was
such a vast advance beyond the former objects proclaimed by the friends
of the colored race that it struck men as preposterous and wholly
inadmissible. Antislavery men were far from united as to the wisdom of
Douglass’ stand. At first William Lloyd Garrison was not ready to join
in the idea, but he was soon found on the right side. As Douglass said
of him, “A man’s head will not long remain wrong, when his heart is
right.”</p>

<p>But if at first Garrison thought it was too much to ask, Wendell
Phillips saw not only the justice, but the wisdom and necessity, of the
measure.</p>

<p>“I shall never leave the Negro until, so far as God gives me the power,
I achieve [absolute equality before the law—absolute civil equality],”
he thundered from his pulpit.</p>

<p>Enfranchisement of the freedmen was resisted on two main grounds:
first, the tendency of the measure to bring the freedmen into conflict
with the old master-class and the white people of the South generally;
second, their unfitness, by reason of their ignorance,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> servility and
degradation, to exercise over the destinies of the nation so great a
power as the ballot.</p>

<p>“We’ve set them free! By Heaven, that’s enough! Let them go to work and
prove themselves!” So spake the North, anxious to get back to “business
as usual.”</p>

<p>But deep down in the land there was a mighty stirring. Words had been
said that could not be recalled—<i>henceforth, and forever free</i>.</p>

<p>There were no stories of killings, massacre or rape by the freed
blacks. Whitelaw Reid, touring the South, reported: “The Negroes
everywhere are quiet, respectful and peaceful; they are the only group
at work.” And the Alexandria <cite>Gazette</cite> said “the Negroes generally
behave themselves respectfully toward the whites.”</p>

<p>At first there was much roaming about. Husbands set out to find
wives; and wives, idle, sat on the flat ground, believing they would
come. Mothers who had never set foot off the plantation, struck
out across the country to find their children; and children—like
dirty, scared, brown animals—swarmed aimlessly. There was sickness
and death. Freedman’s Aid Societies floundered around in a vacuum,
well-intentioned, doling out relief here and there; but what the black
man needed was a place where he could stand—a tiny, little part of the
great earth and a tool in his right hand.</p>

<p>William Freeland, master of Freelands, sat on his high-pillared
porch staring at the unkempt, tangled yard. Weeds and briers choking
everything—shrubbery, close-fisted, intricately branched, suffocating
the rambler. In the fields beyond, nothing was growing save long grass,
thistles and fierce suckers; and over the pond a scum had gathered,
frothing and buoyed with its own gases.</p>

<p>Though past sixty when the war began, William Freeland, ashamed that
Maryland was undecided, had gone to Richmond and volunteered. He had
cut a fine figure riding away on his horse—his well-tailored gray
uniform setting off the iron gray of his hair. The ladies of Richmond
had leaned from their windows, fluttering lace handkerchiefs. They
would not have recognized him when he came back to Freelands. His hair
was thinned and white, his uniform a tattered, filthy rag; the bony nag
he rode could scarcely make it to the old sycamore.</p>

<p>But the house still stood. It had not been pillaged or burned. His land
had not been plowed with cannon; it was not soaked with blood. Suddenly
the spring evening was cold, and he shuddered. Involuntarily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> his hand
reached toward the bell. Then it fell back. No one would answer. Old
Sue was in the kitchen, but she was too deaf to hear.</p>

<p>He would have to get some help on the place. The thought of paying
wages to the ungrateful blacks filled him with rage. The cause of all
the suffering and woe, they had turned on their masters, running after
Yankees. Some of them had even shot white men! Gall bit into his soul
as he remembered the strutting colored soldiers in Richmond.</p>

<p>The sound of a cart coming up the drive broke into his gloomy
meditation. The master frowned. A side road led around to the back.
Peddlers’ carts had no place on the drive. Then he remembered. This was
probably the man he was expecting—impudent upstart! His hand shook,
but he braced himself. He had promised to listen to him.</p>

<p>“He’s likely a damn Yankee, though he claims he’s from Georgia,”
Freeland’s friend, the Colonel, had said. “But he’s got a scheme for
getting the niggers back in their place. He says they’re dying like
flies on the roads, they’ll be glad to get back to work. Just bide your
time, old man, we’ll have all our niggers back. Where can they go?”</p>

<p>The master did not rise to greet his guest. He hated the sniveling oaf.
But before the cart went rumbling back along the drive the owner of
Freelands had parted with precious dollars.</p>

<p>Similar transactions were being carried on all over the South that
spring.</p>

<p>“Were the planters willing to bestow the same amount of money upon
the laborers as additional wages, as they pay to runners and waste in
dishonest means of compulsion, they would have drawn as many voluntary
and faithful laborers as they now obtain reluctant ones. But there
are harpies, who, most of them, were in the slave trade, and who
persuade planters to use them as brokers to supply the plantations
with hands, at the same time using all means to deceive the simple and
unsophisticated laborer.”<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p>

<p>But things were stirring in the land. Frederick Douglass in Rochester
sending out his paper—sending it South! The handsome, popular Francis
L. Cardoza, charming young Negro Presbyterian minister in New Haven,
Connecticut, resigning his Church and saying, “I’m going South!”</p>

<p>“What!” his parishioners exclaimed.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p>

<p>“Going to Charleston, <i>South</i> Carolina.” And he grinned almost
impishly while they stared at him, wondering if they had heard right.
Francis Cardoza had been in school in Europe while the Anti-Slavery
Societies were lighting their fires. Having finished his work at the
University of Glasgow, he had accepted a call from New Haven. But now
he heard another call—more urgent. He packed up his books. He would
need them in South Carolina—land of his fathers.</p>

<p>Three colored refugees from Santo Domingo pooled their assets and
started a paper in New Orleans. They called it the <cite>New Orleans
Tribune</cite>, and published it as a daily during 1865. After that year
it continued as a weekly until sometime in 1869. It was published in
French and English, and copies were sent to members of Congress. Its
editor, Paul Trevigne, whose father had fought in the War of 1812,
wanted to bring Louisiana “under a truly democratic system of labor.”
He cited a new plan of credit for the people being tried in Europe.
“We, too, need credit for the laborers,” he wrote. “We cannot expect
complete and perfect freedom for the workingmen, as long as they remain
the tools of capital and are deprived of the legitimate product of the
sweat of their brow.”<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p>

<p>It was in September that a friend in South Carolina sent Douglass a
clipping from the <cite>Columbia Daily Phoenix</cite>, certainly <i>not</i>
an Abolitionist sheet. It was dated September 23, 1865, and as Douglass
read his face lighted up with joy. Here was the right and proper
challenge to Provisional Governor Perry—a challenge from within his
own state! “A large meeting of freedmen, held on St. Helena Island on
the 4th instant” had adopted a set of resolutions—five clearly stated,
well-written paragraphs. Douglass reprinted the entire account in his
own paper, crediting its source. People read and could scarcely believe
what they read—coming as it did from the “ignorant, servile blacks” in
the lowlands.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>1. <i>Resolved</i>, That we, the colored residents of St. Helena
Island, do most respectfully petition the Convention about to be
assembled at Columbia, on the 13th instant, to so alter and amend the
present Constitution of this state as to give the right of suffrage to
every man of twenty-one years, without other qualifications than that
required for the white citizens of the states.</p>

<p>2. <i>Resolved</i>, That, by the Declaration of Independence, we
believe these are rights which cannot justly be denied us, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> we
hope the Convention will do us full justice by recognizing them.</p>

<p>3. <i>Resolved</i>, That we will never cease our efforts to obtain, by
all just and legal means, a full recognition of our rights as citizens
of the United States and this Commonwealth.</p>

<p>4. <i>Resolved</i>, That, having heretofore shown our devotion to the
Government, as well as our willingness to defend its Constitution and
laws, therefore we trust that the members of the Convention will see
the justice of allowing us a voice in the election of our rulers.</p>

<p>5. <i>Resolved</i>, That we believe the future peace and welfare
of this state depends very materially upon the protection of the
interests of the colored men and can only be secured by the adoption
of the sentiments embodied in the foregoing resolutions.</p>
</div>

<p>The week of the thirteenth came and went. Douglass scanned the papers
in vain for any mention of the petition or of anything concerning the
“new citizens” of South Carolina. In October came a letter from Francis
Cardoza, whom Douglass had met but did not know very well. He said, “I
wish to thank you for giving publicity to the petition sent in by our
people on St. Helena. Your co-operation strengthened their hearts. As
you know, as yet nothing has come of it, nor of the longer document
drawn up and presented by 103 Negroes assembled in Charleston. I have a
copy of the Charleston petition. Should you be in Washington any time
soon I’ll gladly meet you there with it. These men are neither to be
pitied nor scorned. They know that they are only at the beginning. With
the ballot they will become useful, responsible, functioning citizens
of the state. Without the ballot—sooner or later, there will be war.”</p>

<p>Douglass immediately got in touch with certain influential men. “I
propose,” he said, “that a committee go to Washington and lay the
matter of the freedmen’s enfranchisement squarely before President
Johnson.” His face darkened for a moment. “Perhaps I misjudge the man,”
he added. “He is faced with a gigantic task. It is our duty to give him
every assistance.”</p>

<p>They rallied round, and a delegation of colored people from Illinois,
Wisconsin, Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, South Carolina, North
Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, the New England
states and the District of Columbia was called together. George
Downing, of Rhode Island, and Frederick Douglass were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> named spokesmen.
A letter was dispatched to the White House requesting an interview with
the President.</p>

<p>After several weeks, the answer came. The President would receive the
delegation February 7. Douglass sent off a note to Cardoza saying when
he would be in Washington and suggesting the home of “my dear friend,
Mrs. Amelia Kemp” as the place of meeting.</p>

<p>An account of Johnson’s interview with the “Negro delegation” has gone
into the historical archives of Washington. It received nationwide
publicity both because of what was said and because of Frederick
Douglass’ gift for rebuttal.</p>

<p>“Until that interview,” Douglass wrote in his <cite>Life and Times</cite>,
“the country was not fully aware of the intentions and policy of
President Johnson on the subject of reconstruction, especially in
respect of the newly emancipated class of the South. After having heard
the brief addresses made to him by Mr. Downing and myself, he occupied
at least three-quarters of an hour in what seemed a set speech, and
refused to listen to any reply on our part, although solicited to grant
a few moments for that purpose. Seeing the advantage that Mr. Johnson
would have over us in getting his speech paraded before the country in
the morning papers, the members of the delegation met on the evening
of that day, and instructed me to prepare a brief reply, which should
go out to the country simultaneously with the President’s speech to
us. Since this reply indicates the points of difference between the
President and ourselves, I produce it here as a part of the history of
the times, it being concurred in by all the members of the delegation.”</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>1. The first point to which we feel especially bound to take
exception, is your attempt to found a policy opposed to our
enfranchisement, upon the alleged ground of an existing hostility on
the part of the former slaves toward the poor white people of the
South. We admit the existence of this hostility, and hold that it is
entirely reciprocal. But you obviously commit an error by drawing an
argument from an incident of slavery, and making it a basis for a
policy adapted to a state of freedom. The hostility between the whites
and blacks of the South is easily explained. It has its root and sap
in the relation of slavery, and was incited on both sides by the
cunning of the slave masters. Those masters secured their ascendancy
over both the poor whites and blacks by putting enmity between them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p>

<p>They divided both to conquer each. There was no earthly reason why the
blacks should not hate and dread the poor whites when in a state of
slavery, for it was from this class that their masters received their
slave-catchers, slave-drivers, and overseers. They were the men called
in upon all occasions by the masters whenever any fiendish outrage
was to be committed upon the slave. Now, sir, you cannot but perceive
that, the cause of this hatred removed, the effect must be removed
also. Slavery is abolished.... You must see that it is altogether
illogical to legislate from slaveholding premises for a people whom
you have repeatedly declared it your purpose to maintain in freedom.</p>

<p>2. Besides, even if it were true, as you allege, that the hostility of
the blacks toward the poor whites must necessarily project itself into
a state of freedom, and that this enmity between the two races is even
more intense in a state of freedom than in a state of slavery, in the
name of heaven, we ask how can you, in view of your professed desire
to promote the welfare of the black man, deprive him of all means of
defense, and clothe him whom you regard as his enemy in the panoply
of political power? Can it be that you recommend a policy which would
arm the strong and cast down the defenseless?... Peace between races
is not to be secured by degrading one race and exalting another; by
giving power to one race and withholding it from another; but by
maintaining a state of equal justice between all classes.</p>

<p>3. On the colonization theory you were pleased to broach, very much
could be said. It is impossible to suppose, in view of the usefulness
of the black man in time of peace as a laborer in the South, and in
time of war as a soldier in the North ... that there can ever come a
time when he can be removed from this country without a terrible shock
to its prosperity and peace. Besides, the worst enemy of the nation
could not cast upon its fair name a greater infamy than to admit that
Negroes could be tolerated among them in a state of the most degrading
slavery and oppression, and must be cast away, driven into exile, for
no other cause than having been freed from their chains.<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p>
</div>

<p>The open letter written, one of the delegation hurried away with it to
the press. They had repaired to the home of John F. Cook, Washington
member of the delegation. He invited Douglass to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> remain for the night,
but Douglass explained that he had yet another appointment and that he
was expected at the home of an old friend. Douglass now stood up and,
shaking his shoulders, made ready to leave.</p>

<p>The weather outside was nasty. A wet, driving snow had turned the
streets into muddy slush; the wooden sidewalks were slippery and the
crossings were ditches of black water. Douglass fastened his boots
securely and turned up the collar of his coat.</p>

<p>“Can you find your way, Douglass?” asked Dr. Cook. “The streets are so
poorly lighted, and on a night like this a stranger could easily get
lost. If you’ll wait a little I’ll be glad to—”</p>

<p>Douglass interrupted. “No, indeed, Doctor. I know the way very well.
It’s not far.”</p>

<p>Meanwhile, “Miss Amelia” was finding Francis Cardoza good company. He
was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. The little lady’s eyes
twinkled, and her cheeks were flushed.</p>

<p>Tom’s widow was not as spry as she once was. Days and nights of nursing
in the Soldiers’ Home had brought weights heavier than years upon her
valiant frame. Now she was old. But she could take things easy. Jack
Haley was head of the house. The boarders could not be prevailed upon
to move, and the dark woman in the kitchen would have served just as
faithfully without wages. Frederick’s supper was being kept warm on
the back of the stove and his room was ready. She lifted the shade and
peered anxiously out into the dark night.</p>

<p>“I do hope he gets a cab. This is a bad night for him to be out on
these streets alone.” Her guest smiled.</p>

<p>“Frederick Douglass can take care of himself, madam,” he said. “You
should not worry about him.”</p>

<p>“Oh, but I <i>do</i>!” And Amelia’s blue eyes opened wide. Francis
Cardoza, his eyes on the white hands and pulsing, crinkled throat,
marveled anew at the children of God.</p>

<p>When Douglass came he was deeply apologetic, but they waved aside his
concern.</p>

<p>“It is nothing,” they said. “We knew you were busy.”</p>

<p>Amelia would not let them talk until he had eaten, and when he shook
his head, saying he could not keep Mr. Cardoza waiting any longer,
Cardoza laughed.</p>

<p>“Might as well give in, Mr. Douglass.”</p>

<p>So they all went to the dining room, and Amelia insisted that the young
man join her Frederick in his late supper.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span></p>

<p>Here in the friendly room, beside the roaring fire, the happenings of
the day no longer seemed so crushing. He told them everything, and they
listened, feeling his disappointment. Then Amelia spoke their thought
aloud.</p>

<p>“If only Mr. Lincoln had lived!”</p>

<p>She left them then after explaining to Douglass, “I invited Mr. Cardoza
to spend the night, but he has relatives here in Washington.”</p>

<p>They were both on their feet, bowing as she left. Amelia smiled and
thought, “Always such lovely manners.”</p>

<p>The two men settled down before the fire for serious talk. Francis
Cardoza was well informed. He might easily be taken for a white man,
and so had heard much not intended for his ears.</p>

<p>“I talked today with Thaddeus Stevens,” he told Douglass. “I told him
what I had seen of the black codes, and he told me of Senator Sumner’s
magnificent speech in the Senate two days ago. He swears they’ll get
the Civil Rights Bill through in spite of Johnson.”</p>

<p>“And I believe they will!” Douglass agreed. He leaned forward eagerly.
“You have brought the petition?”</p>

<p>“Yes, sir.” Cardoza was unfolding a manuscript. “Here is an exact
copy of the document presented by us to the Convention assembled at
Columbia. These words of the freedmen of South Carolina are our best
argument. Read!” He handed the sheets to Douglass.</p>

<p>It was a long document and Douglass read slowly. This then came from
“those savage blacks”!</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p> ... Our interests and affections are inseparably interwoven with the
welfare and prosperity of the state.... We assure your honorable body
that such recognition of our manhood as this petition asks for, is all
that is needed to convince the colored people of this state that the
white men of the state are prepared to do them justice.</p>

<p>Let us also assure your honorable body that nothing short of this,
our respectful demand, will satisfy our people. If our prayer is not
granted, there will doubtless be the same quiet and seemingly patient
submission to wrong that there has been in the past. The day for which
we watched and prayed came as we expected it; the day of our complete
enfranchisement will also come; and in that faith we will work and
wait.<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p>
<p>Douglass sat staring at the last sheet a long time. The simple majesty
of the words rendered him speechless. His voice was husky.</p>

<p>“I wish I could have read this to President Johnson today. No words of
mine can equal it.”</p>

<p>“President Johnson was already incensed by Senator Sumner’s words,”
Cardoza reminded him.</p>

<p>Douglass was silent for a moment. Then he spoke slowly.</p>

<p>“I want to be fair to President Johnson. In criticizing our friend
Charles Sumner he said, ‘I do not like to be arraigned by someone who
can get up handsomely-rounded periods and deal in rhetoric and talk
about abstract ideas of liberty, who never periled life, liberty, or
property.’” Douglass tapped the closely written sheets. “Well, here are
men who even now are imperiling life, liberty and property. Perhaps he
would have listened.”</p>

<p>“When he spoke to the Negroes of Nashville before his election, Johnson
expressed his eagerness to be another Moses who would lead the black
peoples from bondage to freedom.” Cardoza had been in Nashville a short
time before.</p>

<p>“Notice that even then he said he would do the leading.” There was
bitterness in Douglass’ voice. “Apparently he’s not willing for the
black man to stand up and walk to freedom on his two feet.”</p>

<p>Washington was emerging from the enveloping darkness when Francis
Cardoza took his leave.</p>

<p>As he walked through the silent, gray street past the Representatives
Office Building he saw a light faintly showing through one of the
windows. He murmured his thought aloud.</p>

<p>“We’re beating a nation out upon the anvil of time. The fires must be
kept hot!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Inside the building a tired, thin man with deeply furrowed face pushed
back his chair and for a moment covered his eyes with his hand. Then
he glanced toward the window, and his mouth crooked into a smile. He’d
have to explain at home. Again he had stayed out all night. His desk
was covered with papers. He would go home now, drink some coffee. That
morning he proposed to demand the floor. He had something to say. He
paused a moment and re-read one scribbled paragraph:</p>

<p>“This is not a white man’s Government, in the exclusive sense in
which it is said. To say so is political blasphemy, for it violates
the fundamental principles of our gospel of liberty. This is Man’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>
Government, the Government of all men alike; not that all men will have
equal power and sway within it. Accidental circumstances, natural and
acquired endowment and ability, will vary their fortunes. But equal
rights to all the privileges of the Government is innate in every
immortal being, no matter what the shape or color of the tabernacle
which it inhabits. Our fathers repudiated the whole doctrine of the
legal superiority of families or races, and proclaimed the equality of
men before the law. Upon that they created a revolution and built the
Republic.”<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p>

<p>Thaddeus Stevens arranged the papers in a neat pile, straightened his
wig and stood up. Then he took down his overcoat from the rack and put
it on. His feet echoed in the dim, empty corridor. A Negro attendant
in the lobby saw him coming. The dark face lit up with a smile and his
greeting sang like a tiny hymn.</p>

<p>“Good mawnin’, Mistah Stevens—<i>Good</i> mawnin’ to you, sah!”</p>

<p>And Thaddeus Stevens did not feel the chill in the air as he walked
down the steps and out into the wet, gray dawn.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“The war is not over!” Douglass said grimly to his son Lewis. “The
battle is far from won. Not yet can I unfurl John Brown’s flag in a
land of the free!”</p>

<p>On the other hand, he knew the battle was not lost. But the
Abolitionists’ fundamental tenet of “moral persuasion” would have to
have a firm structure of legislation—or the house would come tumbling
down.</p>

<p>Stout girders for this structure were being lifted all over the land,
in the least expected places.</p>

<p>On January 1, 1867, the African Baptist Church of Richmond, Virginia,
was packed for an Emancipation Celebration. In the midst of the singing
and praying and shouting a young white man rose in the audience and,
going forward, asked if he might say a word.</p>

<p>“My name’s James Hunnicut and I’m from South Carolina,” he said. A
mother hushed her child with a sharp hiss. The dark faces were suddenly
cautious. The young man went on.</p>

<p>“This is a happy birthday for you—a day to be remembered with great
joy.” He waited until the fervent “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” had died
away. He took a step forward and his voice grew taut.</p>

<p>“But now each time you come together I urge you to look into the
future.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span></p>

<p>Then in simple words that all could understand he talked to them
of what it meant to be a citizen. He explained the machinery of
government. He told them they must register and vote in the fall
elections. Some of the men grew tense. They had discussed plans. To
others it was new, and all leaned forward eagerly.</p>

<p>“When you are organized,” he said, “help to elect a loyal governor and
loyal congressmen. Do not vote for men who opposed your liberty—no
matter what they say now. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths
shut. Educate yourselves—and go to the ballot boxes with your votes
tight in your hands!”</p>

<p>The young folks cheered him with a kind of madness. But some of the
older ones shook their heads.</p>

<p>A week after this happened, Frederick Douglass, on his way to
Chicago, found that he could stop off at Galesburg, Illinois, in time
for a local emancipation mass meeting. Galesburg was known as an
Abolitionists’ town. In the town’s old Dunn Hall they had hauled up the
biggest guns of the 1860 campaign. The county had gone almost solid
for Abraham Lincoln, though the Hall had given its greatest ovation to
one of the stoutest advocates of Stephen A. Douglas. The speaker had
been Robert Ingersoll, a young man from Peoria. Now seven years later,
when they planned to celebrate emancipation, the Negroes asked Robert
Ingersoll to deliver the main address. Douglass had been wanting to
hear Ingersoll for a year.</p>

<p>“On one of the frostiest and coldest nights I ever experienced,”
Douglass wrote, “I delivered a lecture in the town of Elmwood,
Illinois, twenty miles from Peoria. It was one of those bleak and
flinty nights, when prairie winds pierce like needles, and a step
on the snow sounds like a file on the steel teeth of a saw. My next
appointment after Elmwood was on Monday night, and in order to reach it
in time, it was necessary to go to Peoria the night previous, so as to
take an early morning train. I could only accomplish this by leaving
Elmwood after my lecture at midnight, for there was no Sunday train.
So a little before the hour at which my train was expected at Elmwood,
I started for the station with my friend Mr. Brown. On the way I said
to him, ‘I’m going to Peoria with something like a real dread of the
place. I expect to be compelled to walk the streets of that city all
night to keep from freezing.’ I told him that the last time I was there
I could obtain no shelter at any hotel and I knew no one in the city.
Mr. Brown was visibly affected by the statement and for some time was
silent. At last, as if suddenly discovering a way out of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> a painful
situation, he said, ‘I know a man in Peoria, should the hotels be
closed against you there, who would gladly open his doors to you—a man
who will receive you at any hour of the night, and in any weather, and
that man is Robert G. Ingersoll.’ ‘Why,’ said I, ‘it would not do to
disturb a family at such a time as I shall arrive there, on a night so
cold as this.’ ‘No matter about the hour,’ he said; ‘neither he nor his
family would be happy if they thought you were shelterless on such a
night. I know Mr. Ingersoll, and that he will be glad to welcome you at
midnight or at cockcrow.’ I became much interested by this description
of Mr. Ingersoll. Fortunately I had no occasion for disturbing him or
his family that night. I did find quarters for the night at the best
hotel in the city.”<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p>

<p>He had left Peoria the next morning. But his desire to meet the Peoria
lawyer had increased with the passing months—not the least because he
usually heard him referred to as “the infidel.”</p>

<p>The train was late pulling into Galesburg. Douglass took a cab at the
station and was driven directly to Dunn’s Hall. The place was jammed
with people, and the meeting well under way. Douglass saw that the
crowd was largely colored. That meant a lot of them had come a long
distance. Among so many strangers he hoped to get in without attracting
attention.</p>

<p>He succeeded, but it was because the attention of the throng was
riveted on the speaker who faced them on the platform far up front.
Only those persons whom he pushed against even saw the big man with the
upturned coat collar.</p>

<p>Douglass later described Robert G. Ingersoll as a man “with real living
human sunshine in his face.” It was this quality of dynamic light
about the man up front which made him stare on that January night. He
had come prepared to be impressed, but he was amazed at the almost
childlike freshness of the fair, smooth face with its wide-set eyes.
Ingersoll was of fine height and breadth, his mouth as gentle as a
woman’s, but, as Douglass began taking in what the man was saying, his
wonder grew.</p>

<p>“Slavery has destroyed every nation that has gone down to death. It
caused the last vestige of Grecian civilization to disappear forever,
and it caused Rome to fall with a crash that shook the world. After
the disappearance of slavery in its grossest forms in Europe, Gonzales
pointed out to his countrymen, the Portuguese, the immense profits that
they could make by stealing Africans, and thus commenced the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> modern
slave trade—that aggregation of all horror—infinite of all cruelty,
prosecuted only by demons, and defended only by fiends.</p>

<p>“And yet the slave trade has been defended and sustained by every
civilized nation, and by each and all has been baptized ‘legitimate
commerce’ in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”</p>

<p>Douglass felt a chill descend his spine.</p>

<p>He told them that every great movement must be led by heroic,
self-sacrificing pioneers. Then his voice took on another quality.</p>

<p>“In Santo Domingo the pioneers were Oge and Chevannes; they headed
a revolt, they were unsuccessful, but they roused the slaves to
resistance. They were captured, tried, condemned and executed. They
were made to ask forgiveness of God and of the King, for having
attempted to give freedom to their own flesh and blood. They were
broken alive on the wheel and left to die of hunger and pain. The blood
of those martyrs became the seed of liberty; and afterward in the
midnight assault, in the massacre and pillage, the infuriated slaves
shouted their names as their battle cry, until Toussaint, the greatest
of the blacks, gave freedom to them all.”</p>

<p>He quoted Thomas Paine: <i>No man can be happy surrounded by those
whose happiness he has destroyed</i>. And Thomas Jefferson: <i>When
the measure of their tears shall be full—when their groans shall have
involved heaven itself in darkness—doubtless a God of justice will
awaken to their distress and, by diffusing light and liberality among
the oppressors or at length by his exterminating thunder, manifest his
attention to the things of this world and that they are not left to the
guidance of a blind fatality</i>.</p>

<p>He named Garrison, who was “for liberty as a principle and not from
mere necessity.”</p>

<p>A cheer went up from the crowd. Douglass’ heart was glad as he heard
it. Ingersoll then talked of Wendell Phillips, and of Charles Sumner,
who at that moment was battling for the freedmen in Congress. His voice
deepened, his great eyes became soft pools of light.</p>

<p>“But the real pioneer in America was old John Brown,” he said. There
was no cheer this time. They bowed their head and the golden voice was
like a prayer.</p>

<p>“He struck the sublimest blow of the age for freedom. It was said of
him that he stepped from the gallows to the throne of God. It was said
that he had made the scaffold to Liberty what Christ had made the cross
to Christianity.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p>

<p>They wept softly. Douglass, his hands clenched, lost himself in
memories. When he heard the voice again it was ringing.</p>

<p>“In reconstructing the Southern states ... we prefer loyal blacks to
disloyal whites.... Today I am in favor of giving the Negro every right
that I claim for myself.</p>

<p>“We must be for freedom everywhere. Freedom is progress—slavery is
desolation and want; freedom invents, slavery forgets. Freedom believes
in education; the salvation of slavery is ignorance.</p>

<p>“The South has always dreaded the alphabet. They looked upon each
letter as an Abolitionist, and well they might.” There was laughter.</p>

<p>“If, in the future, the wheel of fortune should take a turn, and you
should in any country have white men in your power, I pray you not
to execute the villainy we have taught you.” The old Hall was still.
Ingersoll was drawing to a close. “... Stand for each other and above
all stand for liberty the world over—for all men.”<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p>

<p>Douglass slipped out. He heard the thunder of applause. It filled the
winter night as he hurried away. He walked for a long time down the
unfamiliar streets, the snow crunching under his feet, but he did not
feel the cold. His blood raced through his veins, his brain was on
fire, his heart sang.</p>

<p>He had seen a shining angel brandishing his sword.</p>

<p>He had also found a friend. He would clasp Ingersoll’s hand in his
maturity, as the young Douglass had clasped the hands of William Lloyd
Garrison and John Brown.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Seventeen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Seventeen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Fourscore years ago in Washington</i><br>
</p>


<p>“The future of the freedmen is linked with the destiny of Labor in
America. Negroes, thank God, are workers.”</p>

<p>New words being added to the song of freedom. In 1867, in the District
of Columbia, colored workers came together in a mass meeting. They
asked Congress to secure equal apportionment of employment to white and
colored labor. Their petition was printed, and a committee of fifteen
was appointed to circulate it. Similar meetings were held in Kentucky,
Indiana and in Pennsylvania.</p>

<p>A year and a half later, in January, 1869, they called a national
convention in Washington. Among the one hundred and thirty delegates
from all parts of the country came Henry M. Turner, black political
leader of Georgia. Resolutions were passed in favor of universal
suffrage, the opening of public lands in the South for Negroes,
the Freedman’s Bureau, a national tax for Negro schools, and the
reconstruction policy of Congress. They opposed any plan for
colonization.</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass was elected permanent president. Resolutions
were passed advocating industrious habits, the learning of trades
and professions, distribution of government lands, suffrage for
all—including women—and “free school systems, with no distinction on
account of race, color, sex or creed.”</p>

<p>The January convention, though not primarily a labor group, backed
industrial emancipation. Eleven months later a distinctly labor
convention met and stayed in session a full week at Union League Hall
in Washington.</p>

<p>In February, 1870, the Bureau of Labor ran an article on the need of
organized Negro labor. Shortly afterward, the Colored National<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> Labor
Union came into being, with the <cite>New Era</cite>, a weekly paper, its
national organ. Frederick Douglass was asked to become editor-in-chief.</p>

<p>People wanted Douglass to go into politics. Rochester, with a
population of over sixty thousand white citizens and only about two
hundred colored, had sent him as delegate to a national political
convention in the fall of 1866. The National Loyalists’ Convention held
in Philadelphia was composed of delegates from the South, North and
West. Its object was to lay down the principles to be observed in the
reconstruction of society in the Southern states.</p>

<p>Though he had been sent by a “white vote,” all was not clear sailing
for Douglass. His troubles started on the delegates’ special train
headed for Philadelphia. At Harrisburg it was coupled to another
special from the southwest—and the train began to rock! After a
hurried consultation it was decided that the “Jonah” in their midst
had better be tossed overboard. The spokesman chosen to convey this
decision to the victim was a gentleman from New Orleans, of low voice
and charming manners. “I credit him with a high degree of politeness
and the gift of eloquence,” said Douglass.</p>

<p>He began by exhibiting his knowledge of Douglass’ history and of his
works, and said that he entertained toward him a very high respect.
He assured the delegate from Rochester that the gentlemen who sent
him, as well as those who accompanied him, regarded the Honorable Mr.
Douglass with admiration and that there was not among them the remotest
objection to sitting in convention with so distinguished a gentleman.
Then he paused, daintily wiping his hands on a spotless handkerchief.
Having tucked the linen back into his pocket, he spread his hands
expressively and leaned forward. Was it, he asked, not necessary to
set aside personal wishes for the common cause? Before Douglass could
answer, he shrugged his shoulders and went on. After all, it was purely
a question of party expediency. He must know that there was strong
and bitter prejudice against his race in the North as well as in the
South. They would raise the cry of social as well as political equality
against the Republicans, if the famous Douglass attended this loyal
national convention.</p>

<p>There were tears in the gentleman’s voice as he deplored the sacrifices
which one must make for the good of the Republican cause. But, he
pointed out, there were a couple of districts in the state of Indiana
so evenly balanced that a little thing was likely to turn the scale
against them, defeat their candidates, and thus leave Congress<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> without
the necessary two-thirds vote for carrying through the so-badly needed
legislation.</p>

<p>“It is,” he ended, lifting his eyes piously, “only the good God who
gives us strength for such sacrifice.”</p>

<p>Douglass had listened attentively to this address, uttering no word
during its delivery. The spokesman leaned back in his seat. The three
delegates who had accompanied him and who had remained standing in the
aisle, turned to leave. They stopped in their tracks, however, at the
sound of Douglass’ voice. It was a resonant voice, with rich overtones,
and his words were heard distinctly by everyone in the car.</p>

<p>“Gentlemen,” he said, “with all due respect, you might as well ask me
to put a loaded pistol to my head and blow my brains out as to ask me
to keep out of this convention, to which I have been duly elected!”</p>

<p>The Louisianian’s face froze. One of the men in the aisle swore—none
too swiftly. Douglass reasoned with them.</p>

<p>“What, gentlemen, would you gain by this exclusion? Would not the
charge of cowardice, certain to be brought against you, prove more
damaging than that of amalgamation? Would you not be branded all over
the land as dastardly hypocrites, professing principles which you
have no wish or intention of carrying out? As a matter of policy or
expediency, you will be wise to let me in. Everybody knows that I have
been fairly elected by the city of Rochester as a delegate. The fact
has been broadly announced and commented upon all over the country.
If I am not admitted, the public will ask, ‘Where is Douglass? Why is
he not seen in the convention?’ And you would find that enquiry more
difficult to answer than any charge brought against you for favoring
political or social equality.” He paused. No one moved. Their faces
remained hard and unconvinced. Douglass sighed. Then his face also
hardened. He stood up.</p>

<p>“Well, ignoring the question of policy altogether, I am bound to go
into that convention. Not to do so would contradict the principle and
practice of my life.”</p>

<p>They left then. The charming gentleman from New Orleans did not bother
to bow.</p>

<p>No more was said about the matter. Frederick Douglass was not excluded,
but throughout the first morning session it was evident that he was to
be ignored.</p>

<p>That afternoon a procession had been planned to start from Independence
Hall. Flags and banners lined the way and crowds filled the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> streets.
Douglass reached the starting point in good time. “Almost everybody
on the ground whom I met seemed to be ashamed or afraid of me. I had
been warned that I should not be allowed to walk through the city in
the procession; fears had been expressed that my presence in it would
so shock the prejudices of the people of Philadelphia as to cause the
procession to be mobbed.”</p>

<p>The delegates were to walk two abreast. Douglass stood waiting, grimly
determined to march alone. But shortly before the signal to start
Theodore Tilton, young poet-editor of the <cite>New York Independent</cite>
and the <cite>Brooklyn Worker</cite>, came hurrying in his direction. His
straw-colored hair was rumpled and his face flushed.</p>

<p>“This way, Mr. Douglass! I’ve been looking for you.”</p>

<p>He grinned as he seized Douglass’ arm and with him pushed well up
toward the head of the procession. There they took a place in the line.
Tilton gayly ignored the sour faces around them.</p>

<p>“All set, captain, we’re ready to march!” he called.</p>

<p>Douglass tried to murmur something to express his appreciation, but the
writer winked at him.</p>

<p>“Watch and see what happens!” he chuckled.</p>

<p>The band struck up and the line began to move. Someone on the sidewalk
pointed to the sweeping mane of Douglass’ head and shouted, “Douglass!
There’s Frederick Douglass!”</p>

<p>They began to cheer. The cheering was heard by those farther down the
street, and heads craned forward. People leaned out of windows overhead
to see. They waved their flags and shouted, hailing the delegates of
the convention.</p>

<p>And Douglass was the most conspicuous figure in the line. The shout
most often heard all along the way was:</p>

<p>“Douglass! Douglass! There is Frederick Douglass!”</p>

<p>After that there was no further question of ignoring Douglass at the
convention. But any ambitions which he might have had for a political
career cooled. He realized that a thorough-going “politician” might
well have acceded to the delegates’ politely expressed wish “for the
good of the party,” but he knew that he would never place the good of
the party above the good of the people as a whole. After the adoption
of the Fourteenth and Fifteen Amendments, both white and colored people
urged him to move to one of the many districts of the South where
there was a large colored vote and get himself a seat in Congress. No
man in the country had a larger following. But the thought of going
to live among people simply to gain their votes was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> repugnant to his
self-respect. The idea did not square with his better judgment or sense
of propriety.</p>

<p>When he was called to Washington to edit the <cite>New Era</cite> he began
to turn the thought over in his mind. The problem of what to do with
himself after the Anti-Slavery Society disbanded had been taken care
of. He was in demand as a lecturer in colleges, on lyceum circuits
and before literary societies. Where before he had considered himself
well-off with his four-hundred-fifty- to five-hundred-dollar-a-year
salary, he now received one hundred, one hundred fifty, or two hundred
dollars for a single lecture. His children were grown. Lewis was a
successful printer, Rosetta was married, and the youngest son was
teaching school on the Eastern Shore of Maryland not far from St.
Michaels.</p>

<p>Douglass had campaigned for Ulysses S. Grant because he was fond of,
and believed in, Grant. There had been scarcely any contest. The people
were sick to death of the constant wrangling which had been going on
in Congress. President Johnson’s impeachment had fizzled like a bad
firecracker. The kindest thing they said about Johnson was that he was
weak. Everybody agreed that what was needed now was a strong hand. So
by an overwhelming majority they chose a war hero.</p>

<p>Undoubtedly, Washington would be interesting, reasoned Douglass. It was
the center of the hub, the Capital of all the States. He would also
be nearer the great masses of his own people. But Anna Douglass—for
the first time in thirty years neither overworked nor burdened with
cares—was reluctant to leave Rochester.</p>

<p>Douglass provided for his family, but making money had never been his
chief concern. Anna had always stretched dollars. The babies were all
little together, so Anna could not go out and work. But while they were
little, she often brought work home, sometimes without her husband’s
knowledge. During the years when runaway slaves hid in their attic,
Anna was always there at any hour of the day or night with food, clean
clothing, warm blankets; and it was Anna who kept her husband’s shirts
carefully laundered, his bag neatly packed. No one knew better than
Douglass how Anna carried the countless, minute burdens of the days and
nights. He loved her and depended upon her. But, like Anna Brown, she
was the wife of a man who belonged to history. So now, though she would
have preferred to relax under the big shade tree he had planted years
before, enjoy the cool spaciousness of the home which they had made
very comfortable,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> gossip a bit with her neighbors and relish the many
friendly contacts she had made in Rochester, she nodded her head.</p>

<p>“If Washington is the place for you, of course we’ll go.” And she
smiled at her husband, who was growing more handsome and more famous
every day.</p>

<p>Douglass was in his prime. He cut an imposing figure. He knew it and
was glad. For he regarded himself as ambassador of all the freedmen
in America. He was always on guard—his speech, his manners, his
appearance. Now that he could, he dressed meticulously, stopped off at
New York on his way to Washington and ordered several suits, saw to it
that he was well supplied with stiff white shirts. He intended that
when he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, across Lafayette Square, or
through the Capital grounds, men would ask, “Who is he? What embassy
is he from?” Sooner or later they would learn that he was “Frederick
Douglass, ex-slave!”</p>

<p>Yes, he was proud. And this same naïve pride almost tripped him.</p>

<p>Since the paper needed him at once, it was decided Douglass would go on
ahead, find a house, and later they would move their things and Anna
would follow him.</p>

<p>He plunged into his work and almost immediately into difficulties. The
<cite>New Era</cite> was not his own paper. It was the national organ of the
Colored National Labor Union, and Douglass soon found he was not in
step with the union leaders. The only one he knew personally was George
Downing of Rhode Island. Even Downing seemed to have developed strange,
new ideas.</p>

<p>James H. Morris was an astute and courageous reconstruction leader of
North Carolina who saw politics and labor in clear alliance.</p>

<p>“What the South needs is a thorough reconstruction of its classes,” he
argued, “and that’s a long way from being a sharp division of white
and black.”</p>

<p>“With the ballot the Negro has full citizenship. He can make his way.”
Douglass did not grasp the significance of organized labor.</p>

<p>“The unions have been shutting out the black man’s labor all these
years.”</p>

<p>“White workers had to learn.”</p>

<p>It must be remembered that by adoption Douglass was New England and
Upper New York. Puritan individualism with all its good and bad
qualities had sunk deep. He had himself fought for Irish<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> cottiers and
British labor, but could not at this time envision black and white
workers uniting against a common enemy in the United States.</p>

<p>After a series of what he called “bewildering circumstances,” he
purchased the paper and turned it over to Lewis and Frederic, his two
printer sons. After a few years they discontinued its publication. The
“misadventure” cost him from nine to ten thousand dollars.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, in another world—a world of international intrigue and
power politics that took little account of Frederick Douglass—events
were shaping themselves “according to plan.” United States
expansionists waited until President Grant took office and renewed
their efforts to strengthen our hand in the Caribbeans.</p>

<p>The islands of the Caribbean Sea were heavy with potential wealth.
Fortunes lay in the rich, black soil; cheap labor was there in the
poor, black peoples who had been brought from Africa to work the
islands. The key was Santo Domingo—the old Saint Domingue at which
Spain, France and Great Britain had clutched desperately.</p>

<p>Since Columbus first landed there December 6, 1492, the history of the
island had been written in blood. On one side had been born the second
republic in the Western Hemisphere, called Haiti. When U. S. Grant
became President of the United States, Haiti had stood for sixty-six
years—in spite of the fact that it was looked upon as an anomaly
among nations. On the other side of the island was the weaker Santo
Domingo. After declaring its independence in 1845, it had been annexed
by Spain while the Civil War was keeping the United States busy. When
this happened, the “Black Republic” of Haiti sought with more zeal
than power to take the place of the United States as defender against
aggression by a European power. Santo Domingo did manage to wrench
herself from Spain in 1865, but she was far from secure. The need for
military bases and coaling stations in the Caribbean was obvious to a
President skilled in military tactics. Admirals and generals of many
nations had looked with longing eyes on Haiti’s Môle St. Nicolas,
finest harbor in the Western world. But the Haitians were in a position
to hold their harbor, and meanwhile Santo Domingo’s Samoná Bay was not
bad. So President Grant offered the “protection” of the powerful United
States to a “weak and defenseless people, torn and rent by internal
feuds and unable to maintain order at home or command respect abroad.”</p>

<p>But the ever-watchful Charles Sumner rose in the Senate, and for six
hours his voice resounded through the chamber like the wrath of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> God.
He set off a series of repercussions against this annexation which
reverberated across the country.</p>

<p>Douglass, in the midst of his own perplexities, heard the echoes and
defended President Grant. Men working with him, particularly labor men,
stared at him in amazement.</p>

<p>“How can you, Douglass!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you see what this
means? And how can you side against Sumner? He’s the most courageous
friend the black man has in Congress!”</p>

<p>“I’m not against Charles Sumner. Our Senator sees this proposed
annexation as a measure to extinguish a colored nation and therefore
bitterly opposes it. But even a great and good man can be wrong.”</p>

<p>George Downing, his eyes on Douglass’ earnest, troubled face, thought
to himself, <i>How right you are!</i></p>

<p>Charles Sumner, lying on a couch in the library of his big house facing
Lafayette Square, listened with closed eyes while Douglass gently
remonstrated. His strength was ebbing. Every one of these supreme
efforts drained him of life. Sumner was one of the few men of his day
who saw that the Union could yet lose the war. He had been very close
to Lincoln in the last days. He was trying to carry out the wishes of
his beloved Commander in Chief. He listened to Douglass, who he knew
also loved Lincoln, with a frown. He sat up impatiently, tossing aside
the light shawl with a snort.</p>

<p>“You’re caught up in a rosy cloud, Douglass. The lovely song of
emancipation still rings in your ears drowning all other sounds. You’re
due for a rude awakening.” His large eyes darkened. “And I’m afraid it
won’t be long in coming!”</p>

<p>It was several days later when Douglass, responding to an invitation
from the White House, felt a chill of apprehension. The President
greeted him with a blunt question.</p>

<p>“Now, what do you think of your friend, Sumner?” he asked bitterly.</p>

<p>“I think, Mr. President,” said Douglass, choosing his words carefully,
“that Senator Sumner is an honest and a valiant statesman. In opposing
the annexation of Santo Domingo he believes he is defending the cause
of the colored race as he has always done.” Douglass saw the slow flush
creeping above the President’s beard. He continued evenly. “But I also
think that in this he is mistaken.”</p>

<p>“You do?” There was surprise in the voice.</p>

<p>“Yes, sir, I do. I see no more dishonor to Santo Domingo in making her
a state of the American Union than in making Kansas,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> Nebraska, or any
other territory such a state. It is giving to a part the strength of
the whole.”</p>

<p>The President relaxed in his chair, a slight smile on his lips.
Douglass leaned forward.</p>

<p>“What do you, Mr. President, think of Senator Sumner?”</p>

<p>President Grant’s answer was concise.</p>

<p>“I think he’s mad!”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The Commission which President Grant sent to the Caribbean was one
of many. Secretary Seward himself had gone to Haiti in the winter of
1865. And in 1867 Seward had sent his son, then Assistant Secretary of
State. But the appointment of Frederick Douglass on Grant’s Commission
was a pretty gesture. A naval vessel manned by one hundred marines
and five hundred sailors, with the Stars and Stripes floating in the
breeze, steaming into Samoná Bay bringing Frederick Douglass and a
“confidential reconnaissance commission” of investigation! A reporter
from the <cite>New York World</cite> went along, and much was made of
Douglass’ “cordial relations” with the other members and of the fact
that he was given the seat of honor at the captain’s table. It was a
delightful cruise.</p>

<p>After thirty-six hours in port, they were ready to leave with the
report that the people were “unanimously” in favor of annexation by the
United States. Douglass heard nothing of the insurrection going on in
the hills, nor of the rival factions bidding for American support, nor
of the dollars from New York.</p>

<p>In spite of the commission, however, Horace Greeley and Charles Sumner
defeated the bill—a bitter disappointment to certain interests, but
far from a knockout blow.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>The “old settlers” of Rochester tendered a farewell reception to
Frederick Douglass and his family when he took formal leave of the
city which had been his home for thirty years. All the old-time
Abolitionists who had weathered the long and bitter storm were invited.
Gerrit Smith, shrunken and feeble, was there. Joy and sadness sat down
together at that board. But everyone was proud of the dark man whom
Rochester now acclaimed as her “most distinguished son.”</p>

<p>Gideon Pitts’s father, old Captain Peter Pitts, had been the first
settler in the township of Richmond, so Gideon Pitts and his wife were
among the sponsors of the affair.</p>

<p>“Those were trying days even in our quiet valley,” Pitts’s eyes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>
twinkled. Douglass was trying to recall the grizzled face. “But we
licked ’em!”</p>

<p>It was the chuckle that brought it all back—the house offering
shelter from pursuers, his pounding on the door and the old man in his
nightshirt and bare feet!</p>

<p>“Mr. Pitts!” He seized his hand. “Of course, it’s Mr. Pitts!” He turned
to his wife, “My dear, these are the folks who took me in that night on
Ridge Road. You remember?”</p>

<p>“Of course, I remember.” Anna smiled. “I’ve always intended to ride out
some afternoon and thank you, but—” She made a little rueful gesture,
and she and Mrs. Pitts began to chat. They spoke of their children, and
Douglass remembered something else.</p>

<p>“You had a little girl—How is she?”</p>

<p>The father laughed proudly. “My little girl’s quite a young lady now.
She’s one that knows her own mind, too—belongs to Miss Anthony’s
voting society. She says that’s the next thing—votes for women!”</p>

<p>Douglass nodded his head. “She’s right. We’re hoping the <i>next</i>
amendment will make women citizens. Remember me to her, won’t you?”</p>

<p>“We sure will, Mr. Douglass!”</p>

<p>Then they were gone and Douglass said, “Good sound Americans,
Anna—people of the land.”</p>

<p>And Anna said a little wistfully, “We’ll miss them.” Deep in her heart,
Anna was afraid of Washington.</p>

<p>The house Douglass had taken at 316 A Street, N.E., was not ready, but
he wanted Anna close by to supervise repairs and redecorations. They
took Lewis with them, leaving Rosetta and her husband in the Rochester
home until everything was moved.</p>

<p>Douglass planned to send his twelve bound volumes of the <cite>North
Star</cite> and <cite>Frederick Douglass’ Paper</cite>, covering the period from
1848 to 1860, to Harvard University Library. The curator had requested
them for Harvard’s historical files. But first he had to dash off to
New Orleans to preside over the Southern States Convention.</p>

<p>P. B. S. Pinchback, Lieutenant-Governor of Louisiana, had invited
Douglass to be his guest at the Governor’s Mansion. Indistinguishable
from a white man, Pinchback had been educated in the North and had
served as a captain in the Union Army. In appearance and actions he was
an educated, well-to-do, genial Louisianian—intelligent and capable,
but he was a practical politician and he played the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> politician’s game.
He might have left New Orleans, gone to France as so many of them did,
or even to some other section of the country. He might easily have
shrugged off the harness of the <i>cordon bleu</i>, but New Orleans was
in his blood. He lived always on the sharp edge, dangerously, while
around him swirled a colorful and kaleidoscopic drama. He was by no
means a charlatan.</p>

<p>It was April when Douglass came to New Orleans. He was greeted most
cordially. “I shall show you my New Orleans and you will not want to
leave,” Pinchback promised.</p>

<p>And Douglass was captivated by New Orleans—captivated and blinded.
Camellias were in bloom, their loveliness reflected in stagnant waters.
Soft, trailing beauty of mosses on damp walls in which stood high,
heavy gates. The streets were filled with multicolored throngs—whites
and blacks and all the colors in between, old women with piercing
bright eyes under flaming <i>tignons</i>, hawkers crying out their
wares, extending great trays piled high with figs, brown cakes and
steaming jars—the liquid French accents—the smells!</p>

<p>They stepped over the carcass of a dog, which had evidently been
floating in the street gutter for some time. “This is the old section,”
Pinchback explained. “When we cross Canal Street, you’ll think you’re
in New York.”</p>

<p>But there was nothing in New York like any part of New Orleans. The
celebrated visitor found himself in gardens where fountains played and
tiny, golden birds sipped honeysuckle, where flowering oleanders grew
in huge jars and lovely ladies with sparkling eyes trailed black lace.</p>

<p>Into the Governor’s courtyard, with its glistening flagstones, came men
for a talk with the great Douglass: Antoine Dubuclet, State Treasurer,
a quiet, dark man, who had lived many years in Paris; tall and cultured
P. G. Deslone, Secretary of State; Paul Trevigne, who published the
<cite>New Orleans Tribune</cite>.</p>

<p>Trevigne was not on the best of terms with the Lieutenant-Governor. He
bowed stiffly from the waist and hoped that the host would leave him
and Douglass alone together. But Pinchback ordered coffee served beside
the fountain, and over the thin, painted cup his eyes laughed.</p>

<p>“M. Trevigne does not approve of me,” he explained, turning to
Douglass. “He thinks I should take life more vigorously—by the throat.
I use other methods.”</p>

<p>Douglass, observing them, realized that here were two men of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> very
different caliber. He marveled anew that Pinchback had been able to
gain the confidence of the black people of New Orleans.</p>

<p>“Undoubtedly, sir,” Trevigne was saying frankly, “I understand better
the more direct methods of our first Lieutenant-Governor.” He turned
to Douglass. “His name was Oscar Dunn, and he was the only one of the
seven colored men in the Senate two years ago who had been a slave. He
was by far the most able.”</p>

<p>Pinchback had been in the Senate then. He studied the tray beside him
and finally chose a heart-shaped pastry. He did not look up, but he
said, “Oscar J. Dunn died—<i>very suddenly</i>.” His smile flashed. “I
prefer to live.”</p>

<p>Trevigne frowned. He continued almost as if the Governor had not spoken.</p>

<p>“Oscar Dunn was responsible for opening public schools to blacks and
poor whites alike.”</p>

<p>Douglass roused himself with a start. He looked at his watch.</p>

<p>“I’m sorry—but I’m going to be late. We must go. Let’s continue our
visit on the way.” Trevigne welcomed the interruption.</p>

<p>“I’ll send you over in the carriage. And do not worry,” Pinchback
lifted himself from the easy chair with languid grace. “The session
will not begin on time.”</p>

<p>But the session of the convention had begun when Douglass reached the
hall. The efficient secretary was calling the roll.</p>

<p>The convention was not going very well. Division in the Republican
ranks grew deeper and broader every day. Douglass blamed Charles Sumner
and Horace Greeley who “on account of their long and earnest advocacy
of justice and liberty to the blacks, had powerful attractions for the
newly-enfranchised class.” He ignored the persistent influence of the
National Labor Union and its economic struggle. Douglass pointed to
what the Republican party had done in Louisiana—to the legislators he
had met. Six years later he was to hear all of them labeled “apes,”
“buffoons,” and “clowns.” He was to see the schools Dunn had labored so
hard to erect burned to the ground; the painstaking, neat accounts of
Dubuclet blotted and falsified; the studied, skilful tacts of Pinchback
labeled “mongrel trickery.”</p>

<p>There were those in New Orleans who saw it coming.</p>

<p>“Warmoth,” they warned him, “is the real master of Louisiana. And
he represents capital, whose business it is to manipulate the labor
vote—white and black.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p>

<p>“The Republican party is the true workingmen’s party of the country!”
thundered Douglass. And what he did was to steer the convention away
from unionism to politics—not seeing their interrelation.</p>

<p>And so, as white labor in the North moved toward stronger and stronger
union organization, it lost interest in, and vital touch with, the
millions of laborers in the South. When the black night came, there was
no help.</p>

<p>But all this was later. Douglass returned to Washington singing the
praises of Louisiana—its rich beauties and the amazing progress the
people were making. He congratulated himself that he had succeeded “in
holding back the convention from a fatal political blunder.” His story
was carried by the <cite>New York Herald</cite>—and pointedly omitted from
the columns of the <cite>Tribune</cite>.</p>

<p>He found a letter awaiting him from Harvard: when was he sending on his
newspaper files? There was some question of getting them catalogued
before summer. Yes, he must attend to that—soon. And he laid the
letter to one side.</p>

<p>On June 2, 1872, his house in Rochester burned to the ground. His
papers were gone, and Douglass cursed the folly of his procrastination.
Rosetta and her husband had managed to get out with a few personal
possessions. Household furniture could be replaced, but Anna wept for a
hundred precious mementos of the days gone by—little Annie’s cape, the
children’s school books, the plum-colored wedding dress and Frederick’s
first silk hat.</p>

<p>But Douglass thought only of his newspaper files and how he ought to
have sent them to Harvard.</p>

<p>The gods were not yet finished with Frederick Douglass. It was as if
they conspired to strip him of the last small vestige of his pride, as
if to make sure that henceforth and forevermore he should “walk humble.”</p>

<p>“It is not without a feeling of humiliation that I must narrate my
connection with the Freedmen’s Saving and Trust Company,” he wrote,
when, later on, he felt he had to put down the whole unfortunate story.</p>

<p>The pathetically naïve account which follows is amazing on many counts.
How could this little group of “church members” have expected to find
their way within the intricate maze of national banking in the United
States? From the start they were doomed to failure. Yet here stands an
eternal monument to the fact that the newly emancipated men and women
“put their money in banks,” were thrifty and frugal beyond our most
rigid demands. For these banks were in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> South among the masses of
people who had just come out of slavery. The one Northern branch was in
Philadelphia. Frederick Douglass did not see the reasons for the bank’s
failure. He blamed himself and the handful of black men who tried to
scale the barricades of big business, only to have themselves broken
and left with a corpse on their hands.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>This was an institution designed to furnish a place of security and
profit for the hard earnings of the colored people, especially in the
South. There was something missionary in its composition, and it dealt
largely in exhortations as well as promises. The men connected with
its management were generally church members, and reputed eminent for
their piety. Their aim was to instil into the minds of the untutored
Africans lessons of sobriety, wisdom, and economy, and to show them
how to rise in the world. Like snowflakes in winter, circulars, tracts
and other papers were, by this benevolent institution, scattered among
the millions, and they were told to “look” to the Freedmen’s Bank and
“live.” Branches were established in all the Southern States, and as a
result, money to the amount of millions flowed into its vaults.</p>

<p>With the usual effect of sudden wealth, the managers felt like making
a little display of their prosperity. They accordingly erected, on one
of the most desirable and expensive sites in the national capital, one
of the most costly and splendid buildings of the time, finished on the
inside with black walnut and furnished with marble counters and all
the modern improvements.... In passing it on the street I often peeped
into its spacious windows, and looked down the row of its gentlemanly
colored clerks, with their pens behind their ears, and felt my very
eyes enriched. It was a sight I had never expected to see....</p>

<p>After settling myself down in Washington, I could and did occasionally
attend the meetings of the Board of Trustees, and had the pleasure of
listening to the rapid reports of the condition of the institution,
which were generally of a most encouraging character.... At one time I
had entrusted to its vaults about twelve thousand dollars. It seemed
fitting to me to cast in my lot with my brother freedmen and to help
build up an institution which represented their thrift and economy
to so striking advantage; for the more millions accumulated there,
I thought, the more consideration and respect would be shown to the
colored people of the whole country.</p>

<p>About four months before this splendid institution was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> compelled to
close its doors in the starved and deluded faces of its depositors,
and while I was assured by its President and its actuary of its sound
condition, I was solicited by some of the trustees to allow them to
use my name in the board as a candidate for its presidency.</p>

<p>So I waked up one morning to find myself seated in a comfortable
armchair, with gold spectacles on my nose, and to hear myself
addressed as president of the Freedmen’s Bank. I could not help
reflecting on the contrast between Frederick the slave boy,
running about with only a tow linen shirt to cover him, and
Frederick—President of a bank counting its assets by millions. I had
heard of golden dreams, but such dreams had no comparison with this
reality.</p>

<p>My term of service on this golden height covered only the brief space
of three months, and was divided into two parts. At first I was
quietly employed in an effort to find out the real condition of the
bank and its numerous branches. This was no easy task. On paper, and
from the representations of its management, its assets amounted to
three millions of dollars, and its liabilities were about equal to
its assets. With such a showing I was encouraged in the belief that
by curtailing the expenses, and doing away with non-paying branches,
we could be carried safely through the financial distress then upon
the country. So confident was I of this, that, in order to meet what
was said to be a temporary emergency, I loaned the bank ten thousand
dollars of my own money, to be held by it until it could realize on a
part of its abundant securities.<a id="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></p>
</div>

<p>One wonders how the trustees ever managed to pay back that loan before
the final crash. But they did pay it.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>Gradually I discovered that the bank had, through dishonest agents,
sustained heavy losses in the South.... I was, six weeks after my
election as president, convinced that the bank was no longer a safe
custodian of the hard earnings of my confiding people.</p>
</div>

<p>Douglass’ next move probably made bad matters worse. He reported to the
Chairman of the Senate Committee on Finance that the federal assets of
the bank were gone. A commission was appointed to take over the bank,
and its doors were closed. Not wishing to take any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> advantage of the
other depositors, Douglass left his money to be divided with the assets
among the creditors of the bank.</p>

<p>In time—a long time—the larger part of the depositors received
most of their money. But it was upon the head of the great Frederick
Douglass that the wrath and the condemnation descended.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Eighteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Eighteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
“<i>If slavery could not kill us, liberty won’t</i>”<br>
</p>


<p>Seneca Falls’ Union Woman’s Suffrage Society hated to lose one of its
most faithful and ardent members, but the manner of her leaving was
cause for much rejoicing. <i>A Civil Service position in Washington! My
goodness, what a break!</i></p>

<p>“It’s not a break.” Miss Dean, secretary of the society, spoke
indignantly. “Helen Pitts has passed the examination, and she is taking
her well-earned place in the ranks of government workers.”</p>

<p>“Sure,” Matilda Hooker teased, “but isn’t Susan B. Anthony wearing
herself out all over the place just so women can have such rights? This
is a significant step, and I say we women in Seneca can be proud of
Helen Pitts.”</p>

<p>“Hear! Hear!” they said. Then Helen Pitts came in, her face flushed,
and after a little excited chatter the meeting was called to order.</p>

<p>It was true that Helen had taken the fall Civil Service examination by
way of a “declaration of independence.” When she presented herself at
the post-office they had eyed her with disapproval.</p>

<p>“What’s the schoolmarm here for?” they asked. And Sid Green remarked
sourly that he’d heard tell she was one of those “advanced women.” His
wife rebuked him sharply.</p>

<p>“Miss Pitts is one of the nicest and most ladylike teachers we’ve ever
had. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sid Green!”</p>

<p>But Sid hadn’t taken it back. The School Board hadn’t liked their
teacher’s marching in the suffrage parade last fall—and Sid knew it,
no matter what his wife said. Anyhow, <i>he</i> wore the pants in
<i>his</i> house. He hitched them up now with a jerk and went outside.</p>

<p>There was no question about the teacher’s popularity with her pupils.
The morning she mailed her resignation (to take effect at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> end
of the month) she decided not to tell the children until after the
Christmas party. That wasn’t going to be easy.</p>

<p>The teacher’s mind was jerked back to the present by hearing her name.</p>

<p>“I move that Helen Pitts be our delegate,” Lucy Payne said.</p>

<p>Helen blinked her eyes.</p>

<p>“I second the motion.” Mrs. Huggins was nodding her head emphatically.</p>

<p>Helen nudged the girl next to her and whispered, “I didn’t hear—What’s
going on?”</p>

<p>“Delegates to the National Convention,” came the low answer.</p>

<p>“But—”</p>

<p>“Sh-sh! You’re on your way to fame and fortune.” The girl grinned as
the chairman rapped for order. She was ready to put the motion.</p>

<p>“It has been moved and seconded that Miss Helen Pitts be our delegate
in Washington next month. All those in favor say ‘Aye’.”</p>

<p>The “Ayes” had it, and everybody beamed at Helen.</p>

<p>“Get up! You’re supposed to thank them!” Her friend nudged her.</p>

<p>It was silly to be nervous—they were all her friends. But the hazel
eyes were dangerously bright and the neat, folded kerchief at her
throat fluttered.</p>

<p>“Ladies, you do me great honor,” she said. “I—I’ll try to be a good
representative.” She swallowed and then spoke resolutely. “We know why
we want votes for women—not for any of the silly reasons some men say.
We must be very sure and as courageous as our leaders. They are taking
the fight right to the Capital, and I promise you we’ll fling it into
the very teeth of Congress, disturbing their peaceful complacency until
they will be forced to action.”</p>

<p>They did not have enough funds in the treasury to send a delegate from
Seneca Falls. Helen would go down to Washington a week before her job
started.</p>

<p>Helen Pitts spent most of her Christmas holiday at home packing and
harking to parental admonitions. Gideon Pitts regarded his daughter
both with pride and apprehension. Schoolteaching had been a nice, quiet
occupation, but he knew something about the “wiles” and “pitfalls” of
big cities. He thought he ought to go down with her and see that she
found a respectable place to live in. His wife held him back.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span></p>

<p>“That’s silly, Pa. Helen’s got plenty mother wit, for all she’s so
small and frail-looking.” Her mother sighed. “I was hoping she’d be
settling near home—that she might accept Brad.”</p>

<p>Aunt Julia was a little more direct.</p>

<p>“I’d get this nonsense out of Helen’s head if I was her mother.” She
spoke firmly. “Old maids soon fade, and all these new-fangled ideas
ain’t a-gonna keep her warm winter nights.”</p>

<p>“Helen’s no old maid yet,” defended her mother.</p>

<p>“’Pears like to me she’ll be thirty come this spring. And if that ain’t
an old maid my mind’s failing me,” was the acid comment.</p>

<p>In due time Helen Pitts took her seat in the Fourth National Suffrage
Convention, meeting in Washington the first week in January, 1874.</p>

<p>The air crackled with excitement. Now that the Fourteenth Amendment
had gone to some length to define “citizenship” within the United
States, “manhood suffrage” was being substituted by the politicians
for the recent vanguard cry “universal suffrage.” Susan B. Anthony was
calling upon the women of America to have their say. The leaders of
the movement were ridiculed, mocked and libeled, but they had come to
Washington in full armor.</p>

<p>Her face aglow, eyes sparkling with indignation, Miss Anthony told
the opening session that a petition against woman’s suffrage had been
presented in the Senate by a Mr. Edmunds. Mrs. General Sherman, Mrs.
Admiral Dahlgren and other Washington wives had signed it.</p>

<p>“These are the women,” she said, “who never knew a want, whose children
are well fed and warmly clad. Yet they would deny these same comforts
to other women even though they are earned by the toil of their hands.
Such women are traitors not only to their best instincts, but to all
mothers of men!”</p>

<p>Helen tried to applaud louder than anybody else. She would have liked
to stand and tell them that her home was in Rochester, that she had
been one of the youngest members of Susan B. Anthony’s own club. But
the women did not spend their time exchanging compliments. Helen voted
for or against resolution after resolution; she was placed on one
committee.</p>

<p>Lincoln Hall was packed for the big open session on Saturday afternoon.
Many came just to hear the big speakers, but the women were happy
because they were creating a real stir in Washington. They devoutly
hoped it would be felt throughout the country.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span></p>

<p>A shiver of anticipation went through the crowd at the appearance of
Robert Ingersoll.</p>

<p>“He’s like a Greek god,” a woman seated beside Helen moaned. “Any man
as handsome as that is bound to be wicked!”</p>

<p>An outstanding editor had written at great length on how laws in the
United States favored women. Word by word and line by line Ingersoll,
the lawyer, cut the ground from underneath the editor’s feet. Skilfully
he analyzed the many laws upon the statute books which bound women and
their children to the petty whims and humors of men.</p>

<p>“But these laws will not change until <i>you</i> change them,” he told
them. “Justice and freedom do not rain like manna from heaven upon
outstretched hands. We men will not <i>give</i> you the ballot. You
must <i>take</i> it!”</p>

<p>The secretaries rustled papers nervously. The chairman glanced at her
watch. There was a hitch in the program, but the audience did not mind
a little breathing spell. The side door up front opened, and Frederick
Douglass entered as quietly as possible. He looked like a huge bear. He
was covered with snow which clung even to his beard and hair. With some
assistance he hurriedly removed this overcoat and rubbers. After wiping
his face and hair with his big handkerchief, he mounted the steps to
the platform.</p>

<p>Instantly the crowd burst into applause which continued while Susan
B. Anthony took his hand and Mr. Ingersoll, leaning forward in his
seat, greeted him warmly. When Douglass sat down facing the audience
his broad shoulders sagged a little, and Helen fancied he closed his
eyes for a moment as he rested his hands on his knees. She had not
heard him since the close of the war. The touch of gray in his hair
heightened his air of distinction, but she had not before noticed how
his cheekbones showed above the beard. Perhaps his face was thinner.</p>

<p>To this convention Douglass was the very symbol of their strivings. He
was one of the first to see that woman’s suffrage and Negro citizenship
were the same fight. He had appeared with Susan B. Anthony in her early
meetings at Syracuse and Rochester. Now slavery was abolished and here
he was still standing at her side.</p>

<p>Few in the big hall heard the effort in Frederick Douglass’ voice that
afternoon. They heard his words. But behind him Robert Ingersoll’s
mouth tightened and a little frown came on his face. <i>What can I do
to help?</i> he wondered.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span></p>

<p>Afterward, Helen Pitts tried to speak to Mr. Douglass. He would not
remember her, but it would be something to write to the folks at home.
But the press of the crowd was too great, and her committee was called
for a short caucus.</p>

<p>In front of the hall some time later she was surprised to see him just
leaving the building. With him was Mr. Ingersoll. Helen was struck
again by the somber shadows in Douglass’ face, but Ingersoll was
smiling, his face animated.</p>

<p>“Nonsense, Douglass!” she heard Ingersoll say. “What you’ve needed for
a long time is a good lawyer.” He laughed buoyantly. “Well, here he is!”</p>

<p>Douglass’ voice was heavy.</p>

<p>“But, Mr. Ingersoll, I can’t—”</p>

<p>Ingersoll had stepped to the curb and, lifting his cane, was hailing a
passing cab.</p>

<p>“But you can. Come along, Douglass! First, we eat. Then I shall tell
you something about banking. What a spot for <i>you</i> to be in!”</p>

<p>They climbed into the cab, and it rolled away through the gathering
dusk. Helen walked to her room, wondering what on earth they had been
talking about.</p>

<p>The next time Helen Pitts heard Douglass speak was on the occasion
of the unveiling of the Freedmen’s Monument in Lincoln Park. Negroes
throughout the United States had raised the money for this monument to
Lincoln; and on a spring day, when once more the lilacs were in bloom,
they called together the great ones of the country to pause and think.
Helen had never before witnessed such an array of dignitaries—the
President of the United States, his Cabinet, judges of the Supreme
Court, members of the Senate and House of Representatives.</p>

<p>“Few facts could better illustrate the vast and wonderful change which
has taken place in our condition as a people,” Douglass, the ex-slave,
told the hushed crowd, “than our assembling here today.... It is the
first time that, in this form and manner, we have sought to do honor
to an American great man, however deserving and illustrious. I commend
the fact to notice. Let it be told in every part of the Republic. Let
men of all parties and opinions hear it. Let those who despise us,
not less than those who respect us, know it and that now and here, in
the spirit of liberty, loyalty and gratitude, we unite in this act of
reverent homage. Let it be known everywhere, and by everybody who takes
an interest in human progress and in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> amelioration of the condition
of mankind, that ... we, the colored people, newly emancipated and
rejoicing in our blood-bought freedom, near the close of the first
century in the life of this Republic, have now and here unveiled, set
apart, and dedicated a monument of enduring granite and bronze, in
every line, feature, and figure of which men may read ... something of
the exalted character and great works of Abraham Lincoln, the first
martyr-President of the United States.”</p>

<p>Douglass spoke as one who loved and mourned a friend. And when the last
word was said, men turned and walked away in silence.</p>

<p>“He is the noblest of them all!” Helen Pitts said to herself.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Douglass sat that night at home in his study, his head bowed in his
hands. Lincoln had been struck down, his face turned toward the future;
he had been struck down as he walked in the road. And they had not
carried on. The nation had failed Lincoln and new chaos was upon them.
“<i>You are caught up in a rosy cloud, Douglass.</i>”</p>

<p>He had been with the Senator from Massachusetts when he died. With his
last breath Charles Sumner had pleaded for the Civil Rights Bill—his
bill. He had died fighting for it.</p>

<p>Douglass had pinned his faith on the ballot. He shuddered. Armed men
were now riding through the night, marking their course by whipping,
shooting, maiming and mutilating men, women and children. They were
entering houses by force, shooting the inmates as they fled, destroying
lives and property. All because the blacks were trying to use their
ballot.</p>

<p>The summer saw a hesitating, weak old man pleading with Congress for
assistance. Congress refused, and so the soldier had no other recourse
but to call out troops to enforce the Reconstruction laws. Three times
the soldiers restored to power candidates who had been ousted from
office by force and fraudulent elections. In retaliation, the planters
in Louisiana killed Negroes and whites in cold blood. Pitched battles
raged in the streets of New Orleans.</p>

<p>The lowest ebb of degradation was reached with the election of 1876.
School histories touch that month lightly and move quickly on. The deal
was made, and Rutherford B. Hayes became President of the United States.</p>

<p>The calm was ominous. From several sections of the dead-still South
groups of grim-faced men journeyed to Washington and gathered at
Frederick Douglass’ house.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p>

<p>“They say he will remove the soldiers. That means the end of everything
for us. Only the Federal troops have held them back!”</p>

<p>“Is there nothing? Nothing you can cling to?” Douglass sought for one
hope.</p>

<p>“There might have been had we cemented ties with Northern labor. They
are just as intent on crushing the white worker.” The black man’s eyes
on Douglass’ face accused him. He had been a delegate to the Louisiana
convention. And that was where the Negro labor union died!</p>

<p>“How bitter knowledge is that comes too late!” Douglass acknowledged
his mistake with these words. The man from South Carolina spoke.</p>

<p>“They’ll say we lost the ballot because we did not know how to use it.”</p>

<p>“It is a lie—we could not do the things we knew to do!”</p>

<p>“The measures you have passed? Reforms?” Douglass searched the drawn
faces.</p>

<p>“They’ll all be swept away—”</p>

<p>“Like so much trash!”</p>

<p>“Go to the new President,” they urged. “You cannot be accused of
seeking favors. Go and tell him the truth. Plead with him to leave us
this protection a little longer.”</p>

<p>“A little longer, they ask a little more time, Mr. Hayes.” Douglass was
in the White House, begging understanding for his people’s need. He
leaned forward, trying to read the face of the man who held so much of
their destiny in his hands.</p>

<p>President Hayes spoke calmly.</p>

<p>“You are excited, Douglass. You have fought a good fight—and your case
is won. There is no cause for further alarm. Your people are free. Now
we must work for the prosperity of all the South. How can the Negro be
deprived of his political or civil rights? The Fourteenth and Fifteenth
Amendments are part of the Constitution. Douglass, do you lose faith in
your government?”</p>

<p>Douglass rose slowly to his feet. There was logic and reason in the
President’s words.</p>

<p>“I covet the best for my country—the true grandeur of justice for
all,” he said. “Humbly I do pray that this United States will not lose
so great a prize.”</p>

<p>He bowed and took his leave.</p>

<p>All restrictions were lifted from the South. Little by little, on one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>
pretext or another, blacks and poor whites were disfranchised; and the
North covered the ugliness with gossamer robes of nostalgic romance.
The Black Codes were invoked; homeless men and women were picked up for
vagrancy, chain gangs formed, and the long, long night set in.</p>

<p>Not all at once, of course. And that afternoon as Douglass walked away
through the White House grounds, he could not be sure. The air was
clean and sweet after a cleansing shower, and he decided to walk.</p>

<p>He swung along, hardly heeding his direction. Then he saw that he was
on I Street, N.W., and, as he approached a certain building, his steps
slowed. The Haitians had opened their Legation with such pomp and
pride! At last the valiant little Republic had been recognized, and
President Lincoln had invited them to send their ambassador. He had
come, a quiet, cultured gentleman who spoke English and French with
equal charm and grace. But almost immediately the Haitian Legation on
I Street had closed, and Ernest Roumain moved to New York City. He had
said very little, but everybody knew that Washington would not tolerate
the Legation of Haiti.</p>

<p>Douglass sighed. He hesitated a moment. Then his face brightened. He
would go and see Miss Amelia. Yes, it would do him good to talk to Miss
Amelia a little while.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>Over on Pennsylvania Avenue at Fifteenth Street government clerks and
secretaries were leaving the Treasury Building. They glanced up at the
clearing skies and set off in their several directions. Helen Pitts
paused a moment at the top of the steps. She and Elsie Baker usually
walked home together; but Elsie did not come, so Helen started walking
rather slowly down the street.</p>

<p>It was nice to stroll along like this after the busy day. Her work had
settled into a regular routine. Life in the civil service was by no
means dull. There was always the possibility of being let in on some
“important secret.” Anything could and often did happen in Washington.</p>

<p>And now there was not even the slightest chance of her getting
homesick. Her first lodging place had been respectable enough, but
she used to look forward to times when she could go home. Now she was
thinking about having her mother come down and spend a week with her.
She’d love it.</p>

<p>Her good luck had come on a particularly cold night when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> Elsie, whom
she knew then only as the Senior Clerk, had spoken to her.</p>

<p>“You have an awfully long ways to go, don’t you, Miss Pitts?”</p>

<p>“Yes, it is far. But it’s only in weather like this that I really mind
it.”</p>

<p>Mrs. Baker—she was a war widow—regarded her for a few minutes and
then murmured, “I wonder!”</p>

<p>“You wonder what?” asked Helen pleasantly.</p>

<p>“I was just wondering if <i>maybe</i> Miss Amelia wouldn’t let you have
Jessie Payne’s room.”</p>

<p>“And why should I have Jessie Payne’s room? I don’t know the lady.”</p>

<p>The Senior Clerk laughed.</p>

<p>“You probably won’t because she went home Christmas to be married. And
her room <i>is</i> empty.”</p>

<p>“Is it a nice room?”</p>

<p>“Miss Amelia’s house is special.” Elsie smiled. “All of us have been
there for ages. John and I both lived there when we—Naturally,
afterward, when I came back I went straight to Miss Amelia. But she
doesn’t take new people. She isn’t able to get about much any more. Mr.
Haley’s really the boss, and she doesn’t have to do anything. So you
see, it isn’t a lodging house at all. You’d love it.”</p>

<p>“It sounds wonderful!”</p>

<p>“Why not come home with me tonight for supper? We could sound Miss
Amelia out.”</p>

<p>They sat around the big table in the dining room—eight of them when
a chair was placed for Helen—with the nicest little blue-eyed lady
smiling at them from behind a tall teapot. Helen knew that the call,
stoop-shouldered Mr. Haley was city editor of one of the daily papers.
He didn’t talk much, but he was a pleasant host.</p>

<p>“Where are you from, Miss Pitts?”</p>

<p>Her reply brought Miss Amelia’s full attention.</p>

<p>“Rochester!” Miss Amelia exclaimed. “We have a very distinguished
friend who lives—or rather used to live—in Rochester. He’s in
Washington now. You’ve heard of Frederick Douglass?” She leaned
forward, her eyes bright.</p>

<p>“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Helen’s enthusiasm was quite genuine. “Everybody in
Rochester knows Frederick Douglass.”</p>

<p>The little lady sat back, a smile on her face.</p>

<p>“I knew him when he was a boy.”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span></p>

<p>Jack Haley chuckled. He turned to Helen, and his tired eyes smiled.</p>

<p>“Hold on to your hat, Miss Pitts. You’re going to hear a story.”</p>

<p>Everybody laughed. They all knew Miss Amelia’s favorite story.</p>

<p>“You’ll get the room!” whispered Elsie.</p>

<p>She was right, of course. The next day Helen Pitts moved into Jessie
Payne’s room.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>They met just outside the gate. He saw that the lady was about to turn
in and so, lifting his hat, he stepped back. She smiled and said, “How
do you do, Mr. Douglass?”</p>

<p>“Good evening, ma’am.” She walked up the path, and he cursed his
inability to remember names. He was sure her face was familiar. It was
dusk. When he saw her inside surely he would remember. At the door she
turned.</p>

<p>“Stop cudgeling your brains,” she said. “I’ve never been introduced to
you.”</p>

<p>“Then it’s not really my fault if I don’t know your name.” He gave a
sigh of relief.</p>

<p>They both laughed then, and Miss Amelia was calling, “Come in! Come in,
both of you! Well, so at last you two have met again.”</p>

<p>“Why no, Miss Amelia, the lady doesn’t—”</p>

<p>“We haven’t been introduced,” Helen interrupted.</p>

<p>“Tck! Tck! You told me that—”</p>

<p>“But that was years ago, Miss Amelia.”</p>

<p>Douglass was holding both Miss Amelia’s hands in his.</p>

<p>“Please, ladies! This isn’t fair. Now, please, won’t you present me?”</p>

<p>Amelia was severe.</p>

<p>“After the length of time you’ve stayed away, Fred, I shouldn’t.”</p>

<p>Douglass bowed gravely when at last she complied with his request,
his eyes still somewhat puzzled. Then Helen said, “I’m Gideon Pitts’s
daughter, from Rochester.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>A few weeks later—to the horror of Washington—President Hayes
appointed Frederick Douglass United States Marshal of the District of
Columbia. It might almost seem that, having recalled the troops from
the South, the President went out of his way to administer a rebuke
where it would hurt most.</p>

<p>Fear was expressed that Douglass would pack the courts and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> jury-boxes
with Negroes. Of even more concern was the time-honored custom that
the Marshal presented all guests to the President at state functions!
Immediately efforts were made by members of the bar to defeat Douglass’
confirmation for office. But a one-time slaveholder, Columbus
Alexander, of an old and wealthy Washington family, joined with George
Hill, influential Republican, in presenting the necessary bond; and
when the confirmation came up before the Senate the gentleman from
New York, Senator Roscoe Conkling, won them over with a masterly and
eloquent address on “Manhood.”</p>

<p>So Frederick Douglass in “white kid gloves, sparrow-tailed coat,
patent-leather boots and alabaster cravat” was at the President’s side
at the next White House reception. Nothing could be done now but wait
for some overt act on his part to justify his removal. The opposition
thought they had him a couple of months after he took office.</p>

<p>The Marshal had been invited to Baltimore to deliver a lecture in
Douglass Hall—named in his honor and used for community educational
purposes. He spoke on “Our National Capital.” Everybody seemed to enjoy
a pleasant evening. But the next morning Douglass awoke to find that he
was being quoted and attacked by the press. Within a few days some of
the newspapers had worked themselves into a frenzy, and committees were
appointed to procure names to a petition demanding his removal from
office.</p>

<p>It is said that the President laughed about the matter, and it is
certain that after a statement made by Douglass was printed in the
<cite>Washington Evening Star</cite> the hostility kindled against him
vanished as quickly as it had come.</p>

<p>Douglass could be very witty, and he had made some humorous reflections
on the great city. “But,” he wrote the editor, “it is the easiest thing
in the world, as you know, sir, to pervert the meaning and give a
one-sided impression of a whole speech.... I am not such a fool as to
decry a city in which I have invested my money and made my permanent
residence.”</p>

<p>As a matter of fact, Douglass had spoken in the most glowing terms of
“our national center.... Elsewhere we may belong to individual States,
but here we belong to the whole United States....”</p>

<p>Douglass did love Washington. With his children and their families
he occupied the double house at 316 and 318 A Street, N.E. But he
wanted to buy some place on the outskirts of the city where Anna could
have peace and rest. His house was only a few minutes’ walk from the
Capitol, and visitors were always knocking on their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> door. Besides,
Anna missed her trees and flowers. She shrank from what she termed the
“frivolities” of Washington and would seldom go anywhere with him. When
he spoke of moving “out into the country” he saw her face brighten. He
began looking for a place.</p>

<p>Marshal Douglass was on hand to welcome President James A. Garfield to
the White House. According to long-established usage, the United States
Marshal had the honor of escorting both the outgoing and the incoming
presidents from the imposing ceremonies in the Senate Chamber to the
east front of the Capitol where, on a platform erected for the purpose,
the presidential oath was administered to the President-elect.</p>

<p>Hopes throughout the country ran high at the time of Garfield’s
inauguration. As Senator from Ohio, Garfield had been a reform advocate
for several years.</p>

<p>There was no question about the serious state of affairs. “Under the
guise of meekly accepting the results and decisions of war,” Douglass
noted, “Southern states were coming back to Congress with the pride of
conquerors rather than with any trace of repentant humility. It was not
the South, but loyal Union men, who had been at fault.... The object
which through violence and bloodshed they had accomplished in the
several states, they were already aiming to accomplish in the United
States by address and political strategy.”</p>

<p>In Douglass’ mind was lodged a vivid and unpleasant memory which he
thought of as “Senator Garfield’s retreat.”</p>

<p>In a speech on the floor the Ohio Senator had used the phrase “perjured
traitors,” describing men who had been trained by the government, were
sworn to support and defend its Constitution, and then had taken to
the battlefield and fought to destroy it. One Randolph Tucker rose
to resent the phrase. “The only defense Mr. Garfield made to this
brazen insolence,” Douglass remembered, “was that he did not make the
dictionary. This was perhaps the soft answer that turneth away wrath,
but it is not the answer Charles Sumner, Benjamin Wade or Owen Lovejoy
would have given. None of these men would have in such a case sheltered
himself behind a dictionary.”</p>

<p>Yet no one in the country felt the shock of President Garfield’s
assassination more deeply than Douglass. Not only had a good man been
cruelly slain in the morning of his highest usefulness, but his sudden
death came as a killing blow to Douglass’ newly awakened hopes for
further recognition of his people.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p>

<p>Only a few weeks before, Garfield had asked Douglass to the White House
for a talk.<a id="FNanchor_30" href="#Footnote_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> The President said he had wondered why his Republican
predecessors had never sent a colored man as minister or ambassador
to a white nation: He planned to depart from this usage. Did Douglass
think one of his race would be acceptable in the capitals of Europe?</p>

<p>Douglass told President Garfield to take the step. Other nations did
not share the American prejudice. Best of all, it would give the
colored citizen new spirit. It would be a sign that the government was
in earnest when it clothed him with American citizenship.</p>

<p>Again the country was in gloom. People in their sorrow came together;
legislators and earnest men and women shook their heads and marveled at
the struggles which seemed necessary for welding a nation of free men.
The people as a whole were finding that freedom is a hard-bought thing.</p>

<p>Douglass rose before a huge audience in New York City. He was older. He
had suffered because of failure to see, he had stumbled a little on the
way—but he had never left the road. The lines in his face were lines
of strength, the fire in his eyes was the light of knowledge, the sweet
song of emancipation no longer filled his ears to the exclusion of
everything else. He saw the scarred and blackened stumps that blocked
his path, he saw the rocks and muddy pitfalls on the way, he knew that
there were hidden snipers further up the road, but he went on—walking
with dignity. The crowd listening to him was very still.</p>

<p>“How stands the case with the recently emancipated millions of colored
people in our country?” he began. “By law, by the Constitution of the
United States, slavery has no existence in our country. The legal form
has been abolished. By law and the Constitution the Negro is a man and
a citizen, and has all the rights and liberties guaranteed to any other
variety of the human family residing in the United States.”</p>

<p>Men who had recently come to these shores from other lands heard him.
New York—melting pot of the world! They had come from Italy and
Germany, from Poland and Ireland and Russia to the country of freedom.</p>

<p>“It is a great thing to have the supreme law of the land on the side
of right and liberty,” he said. “Only,” he went on, “they gave the
freedmen the machinery of liberty, but denied them the steam<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> with
which to put it in motion. They gave them the uniforms of soldiers but
no arms; they called them citizens and left them subjects; they called
them free and almost left them slaves. They did not deprive the old
master-class of the power of life and death. Today the masters cannot
sell them, but they retain the power to starve them to death!</p>

<p>“Greatness,” the black orator reminded the citizens of New York, “does
not come to any people on flowery beds of ease. We must fight to win
the prize. No people to whom liberty is given can hold it as firmly or
wear it as grandly as those who wrench their liberty from the iron hand
of the tyrant.”</p>

<p>He could take the cheers of the crowd with a quiet smile. He knew that
some of them would remember and in their own way would act.</p>

<p>Anna joined her husband on the New York trip. And for a short while
they relived the time more than forty years before, when, after the
anxious days and nights, they were first free together. This trip,
their youngest son Charles was marrying Laura Haley, whose home was in
New York.</p>

<p>They had banks of flowers, organ music, smart ushers and lovely
bridesmaids. The marriage of Charles, son of Frederick Douglass, was
a very different affair from that wedding so long ago when Frederick,
fugitive from slavery, took Anna Murray, freewoman, to be his wife. As
the bride all in white came floating down the aisle, Douglass turned
and smiled into Anna’s clear, good eyes.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>With his appointment as Recorder of Deeds for the District of Columbia,
Douglass knew that he could safely buy the house he coveted. It was for
sale, but until now he had only gazed with longing. It was on Anacostia
Heights overlooking Washington across the Potomac—a fine old house
with spacious grounds, servants’ quarters and stables. As soon as he
took office, and without saying anything to Anna, he set about buying
the property.</p>

<p>For many reasons Douglass’ present appointment was far more desirable
than the post of Marshal. The Recorder’s job was a local office; though
held at the pleasure of the President, it was in no sense a federal or
political post.</p>

<p>Douglass felt freer and more on his own. At that time the salary was
not fixed. The office was supported solely by fees paid for work done
by its employees. Since every transfer of property, every deed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> of
trust and every mortgage had to be recorded, the income was at times
larger than that of any office of the national government except that
of the President. Also, Douglass had that winter brought out the third
of his autobiographies, <cite>The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>.</p>

<p>June promised to be a hot month, and everybody was talking about
getting away from the city. Anna thought her husband seemed
increasingly busy and preoccupied.</p>

<p>“Come along, dear,” he said one Sunday. “We’re going for a drive.”</p>

<p>“Me too, Grandma!” Their grandchild, Rosetta’s little girl, came
running up.</p>

<p>“Not this time, honey,” Douglass said. “Grandpa’ll take you riding, but
not right now.” And he added for Anna’s ears alone, “Today I only want
your grandmother.”</p>

<p>He was in a talkative mood that afternoon.</p>

<p>“Remember the morning the boat pulled into New Bedford?” he asked as
they crossed the bridge over the Potomac River. “Remember the big house
sitting up on the hill?”</p>

<p>He turned in the buggy seat and looked at her. And in that moment he
was no longer the great Frederick Douglass—he was the slender, eager
boy, just escaped from slavery, leaning on the rail of the boat,
devouring with his young eyes every detail of their wonderful free
home. The big white house far up on the hill had caught their eyes.
“<i>Look! Some day we’ll have a house like that! Look, Anna!</i>”</p>

<p>So now, when he asked, “Do you remember?” she only nodded her head. The
smart little buggy was rolling along on land once more.</p>

<p>“Now we’re in Anacostia,” he said. “Close your eyes and keep them
closed till I say!” She heard him chuckle like a boy, and then he said,
“Now—Look!” He pointed with his whip.</p>

<p>It was the big white house high on a hill!</p>

<p>“There’s our house, Anna, the house I promised you!”</p>

<p>She could only stare. Then the meaning of his words made her gasp.</p>

<p>“Frederick! You don’t really mean—You haven’t—?”</p>

<p>He laughed as she had not heard him laugh in a long time. They were
winding up the hill now—toward the house.</p>

<p>That afternoon they planned and dreamed. The owners had let the house
run down, but it would be perfect.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span></p>

<p>“We’ll try to have it ready in time to escape the August heat. This is
why I’ve been deaf to your talk about a vacation.”</p>

<p>The afternoon almost exhausted Anna.</p>

<p>“Mamma’s all fagged out,” Rosetta told her father the next day.</p>

<p>June was very hot, and Douglass began to worry about his wife.</p>

<p>“Perhaps you’d better go away for a few days.” She shook her head.</p>

<p>“The house will be ready soon. When we get on our hill—” Her eyes were
happy with anticipation.</p>

<p>When the doctor ordered her to bed, she was planning the moving.</p>

<p>“I’ll just take it easy for a few days—then we’ll start packing,” she
said.</p>

<p>Anna Murray Douglass died on August 4th, 1882.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Nineteen"><span class="smcap">Chapter Nineteen</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>Indian summer and a fair harvest</i><br>
</p>


<p>They moved him out to the house in November.</p>

<p>“It must be settled before winter,” Rosetta said, and his sons agreed.</p>

<p>“Pipes will freeze up unless someone is in the house.”</p>

<p>So they packed the furniture—the piano—his books. It was a
twelve-room house. They looked at each other in dismay. What were his
plans? What to put in all those rooms?</p>

<p>“Buy what is needed.” His voice was tired. He went into his room,
closing the door softly behind him.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Robert Ingersoll had moved to Washington. In spite of the
many demands of his meteoric career he sought out Douglass, invited him
to his home, sent him books.</p>

<p>“She was so happy, Douglass.” Ingersoll laid his hand on the older
man’s arm. “Think of that. I wish—” He stopped and for a moment a
shadow crossed his face. He was thinking of his brother. Then he said
softly, “Blessed is the man who knows that through his own living he
has brought some happiness into life.”</p>

<p>Gradually Douglass’ work reclaimed him. Nothing had been neglected at
the office. Helen Pitts was now a Senior Clerk there. Everyone had
cooperated in seeing that the work went on. His unfailing courtesy had
endeared him to the whole staff.</p>

<p>He stopped in several times during winter for tea with Miss Amelia. The
little old lady, grown very frail, kept a special biscuit “put by” for
him. Jack Haley came in once and joined them. He kept Douglass talking
quite late, for even after all these years Jack recalled the first long
nights of his own loneliness.</p>

<p>Then the Supreme Court declared the Civil Rights Act of 1875
unconstitutional, and Frederick Douglass leaped into the fray.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span></p>

<p>He called a protest mass meeting at Lincoln Hall.</p>

<p>“If it is a bill for social equality,” Douglass said, opening the
meeting, “so is the Declaration of Independence, which declares that
all men have equal rights; so is the Sermon on the Mount; so is the
golden rule that commands us to do to others as we would that others
should do to us; so is the teaching of the Apostle that of one blood
God has made all nations to dwell on the face of the earth; so is the
Constitution of the United States, and so are the laws and the customs
of every civilized country in the world; for nowhere, outside of the
United States, is any man denied civil rights on account of his color.”</p>

<p>He stood silent until the applause had died away, and introduced “the
defender of the rights of men.” The speech Robert Ingersoll made comes
down to us as one of the great legal defenses of all time.</p>

<p>The voice was the voice of Robert Ingersoll, but as Douglass listened
he heard the clear call of Daniel O’Connell, the fervent passion of
Theodore Parker, the dauntless courage of William Lloyd Garrison.
Sparks “flashing from each to each!”</p>

<p>So Frederick Douglass spoke the following winter when Wendell Phillips
died. All Boston tried to crowd into Faneuil Hall for the memorial to
this great “friend of man.” Douglass was chosen to deliver the address.</p>

<p>“He is not dead as long as one man lives who loves his fellow-men, who
strives for justice, and whose heart beats to the tread of marching
feet.”</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>In the spring the women, gathered in their Sixteenth National Suffrage
Convention, paid tribute to Wendell Phillips, and Douglass heard Miss
Helen Pitts speak briefly. When he rose he made his “co-worker and
former townswoman” a pretty compliment. The women on the platform
smiled their approval at Helen.</p>

<p>In the summer Douglass went out on a speaking tour. The 1884 election
was approaching, and throughout the country voices were questioning
the party in power. Bloody crimes and outrages in the South, betrayal
of all the principles and ideals of Abraham Lincoln, had not won over
the Southern white vote. Negroes in the North—in some doubtful states
their votes were important—began to leave “Lincoln’s Party.”</p>

<p>Douglass was steadfastly opposed to this trend. No possible good, he
said, could come out of the Negro’s lining up with the “Party of the
South.” It had been faithful to the slaveholding class during<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> slavery,
all through the war, and was today faithful to the same ideals.</p>

<p>“I hope and believe,” he told friends, “that Abraham Lincoln’s party
will prove itself equally faithful to its friends ... friends with
black faces who during the war were eyes to your blind, shelter to your
shelterless, when flying from the lines of the enemy.... Leave these
men no longer compelled to wade to the ballot-box through blood.... A
government that can give liberty in its constitution ought to have the
power in its administration to protect and defend that liberty.”</p>

<p>By midsummer it was clear that the campaign would be a hard one. James
G. Blaine, the Republican candidate, was a popular figure. Grover
Cleveland, Democratic candidate, was hardly known outside his own
state. But the issues were not fought around two personalities.</p>

<p>When Douglass returned to Washington in August he heard about Miss
Amelia.</p>

<p>“She wasn’t sick at all,” Helen told him.</p>

<p>“Why didn’t you let me know? I would have come.” Douglass was deeply
distressed.</p>

<p>“There was no time. She wouldn’t have wanted us to call you from your
work when there was nothing you could do.” She spoke gently as to an
unhappy child, but her eyes were filled with tears.</p>

<p>And Douglass, beholding the understanding and compassion that lay in
her blue eyes, could not look away. A minute or an hour—time did not
matter, for the meaning of many years was compressed in that instant.
No word was said, their hands did not touch, but in that moment the
course of their lives changed.</p>

<p>Helen spoke first, a little breathlessly.</p>

<p>“Mr. Haley is breaking up the house. I’d—I’d like to take my vacation,
now that you’re back. I’ll—I’ll go home for a little while.”</p>

<p>He had turned away, his hand shifting the papers on his desk. He did
not look at her.</p>

<p>“Miss Pitts, may I—May I call to see you this evening?” he asked.</p>

<p>“Yes, Mr. Douglass,” Helen Pitts answered simply. “I’ll be at home.”</p>

<p>The next morning Douglass called on a minister who was also his close
friend. He told him that he was going to be married.</p>

<p>“I’d like for you to perform the ceremony.”</p>

<p>The minister was all smiling congratulation. The announcement took
him wholly by surprise. He had heard no whisper of romance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> involving
the great Frederick Douglass who, for all his sixty odd years, was a
handsome figure of a man. The minister beamed.</p>

<p>“You’re very wise. A man needs a good wife! And who is the fortunate
lady?”</p>

<p>He repeated the name, trying to place it. Douglass’ next words brought
him to his feet.</p>

<p>“Douglass!” Real alarm sounded in his voice. “You can’t! It’s suicide!”</p>

<p>Douglass smiled quietly. A warm peace filled his heart. He knew that
all the years of his living had not been barren. All the time he had
been growing into understanding.</p>

<p>“I should be false to all the purposes and principles of my life,” he
said, “if I did not marry this noble lady who has done me the honor to
consent to be my wife. I am a free man.” He stood up, balancing his
cane in his hands. He regarded his distraught friend with something
like pity. “I am free even of making appearances just to impress. Would
it not be ridiculous if, after having denounced from the housetops all
those who discriminate because of the accident of skin color, I myself
should practice the same folly?”</p>

<p>They said nothing about their plans to anyone, not even to Douglass’
children, but were married three days later in the minister’s home.
Then Douglass drove his bride across the Potomac River and out to
Anacostia. Within the next few days every paper in the country carried
accounts of this marriage. Most of what they said was untrue. They were
almost unanimous in condemnation.</p>

<p>When Grover Cleveland was elected President, white and black alike sat
back complacently, jubilantly waiting for the Democratic President
to “kick out” the Recorder of Deeds. Douglass himself did not expect
anything else. His adherence to the Republican party was well known. He
was a “staunch Republican” who had made no secret of his abhorrence of
a Democratic administration. With his wife he paid his formal respects
at the inauguration reception, but they did not linger in the parlors.
He was surprised when, upon returning home a few evenings later, he was
handed a large engraved card inviting Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Douglass
to the Executive Mansion.</p>

<p>“He was a robust, manly man,” Douglass said of Cleveland, “one who
had the courage to act upon his convictions.... He never failed,
while I held office under him, to invite myself and wife to his
grand receptions, and we never failed to attend them. Surrounded by
distinguished men and women from all parts of the country and by
diplomatic representatives from all parts of the world, and under
the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> gaze of late slaveholders, there was nothing in the bearing of
Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland toward Mrs. Douglass and myself less cordial
and courteous than that extended to the other ladies and gentlemen
present.”<a id="FNanchor_31" href="#Footnote_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p>

<p>Within the course of the next two years Washington and the country
recovered some equanimity so far as Douglass was concerned. But it is
doubtful if anybody forgot.</p>

<p>Now Douglass decided on the fulfillment of a long-cherished desire.
They sailed for Europe.</p>

<p>“Don’t come back until you’ve really seen the world,” Ingersoll urged
them. “Take plenty of time. You’ll be richly repaid.”</p>

<p>They stayed away nearly two years. Douglass revisited England and
Ireland and Scotland. He missed the people with whom he had worked in
the old days, but their children received him royally. The two sisters,
Anna and Ellen Richardson, who forty-five years before had written to
Thomas Auld offering to buy his “runaway slave,” were still living.
Helen kissed their withered cheeks and breathed her thanks. They set
up housekeeping in Paris, watched the ships sail from Marseilles, and
climbed the old amphitheater in Arles. In Genoa Douglass was drawn,
more than to anything else, to Paganini’s violin exhibited in the
museum. This was Douglass’ favorite instrument. He had even learned to
play it a little.</p>

<p>“We’ll buy a violin while we’re here,” Helen promised. “It won’t be
Paganini’s, but we’ll get an instrument.”</p>

<p>“Well, it won’t sound like Paganini’s, either!” Under the Italian
sunshine that was enough to make them laugh. Pisa and then Rome, Naples
and Pompeii, Sicily.</p>

<p>Then eagerly they turned toward the rising sun—Egypt, the Suez Canal,
Libyan deserts, the Nile flowing through Africa.</p>

<p>Douglass’ heart beat fast. Sandy’s face came before him—Sandy and
the bit of African dust he had held in his hand so long ago. Perhaps
strength had flowed into him from that dust.</p>

<p>They made the voyage from Naples to Port Said in four days. The weather
was perfect, and at dawn they found themselves face to face with old
Stromboli, whose cone-shaped summit rises almost perpendicularly from
the sea.</p>

<p>“Nothing in my American experience,” Douglass claimed, “ever gave me
such a deep sense of unearthly silence, such a sense of fast, profound,
unbroken sameness and solitude, as did this passage through the Suez
Canal, moving smoothly and noiselessly between two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> spade-built
banks of yellow sand, watched over by the jealous care of England
and France. We find here, too, the motive and mainspring of English
Egyptian occupation and of English policy. On either side stretches
a sandy desert, to which the eye, even with the aid of the strongest
field-glass, can find no limit but the horizon; land where neither
tree, shrub nor vegetation of any kind, nor human habitation breaks
the view. All is flat, broad, silent and unending solitude. There
appears occasionally, away in the distance, a white line of life which
only makes the silence and solitude more pronounced. It is a line of
flamingoes, the only bird to be seen in the desert, making us wonder
what they find upon which to subsist.</p>

<p>“But here, too, is another sign of life, wholly unlooked for, and for
which it is hard to account. It is the half-naked, hungry form of a
human being, a young Arab, who seems to have started up out of the
yellow sand under his feet, for no town, village, house or shelter is
seen from which he could have emerged. But here he is, running by the
ship’s side up and down the sandy banks for miles and for hours with
the speed of a horse and the endurance of a hound, plaintively shouting
as he runs: ‘Backsheesh! Backsheesh! Backsheesh!’ and only stopping in
the race to pick up the pieces of bread and meat thrown to him from the
ship. Far away in the distance, through the quivering air and sunlight,
a mirage appears. Now it is a splendid forest and now a refreshing
lake. The illusion is perfect.”<a id="FNanchor_32" href="#Footnote_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></p>

<p>The memory of this half-naked, lean young Arab with the mirage behind
him made an indelible impression.</p>

<p>After a week in Cairo, Douglass wrote, “Rome has its unwashed monks,
Cairo its howling and dancing dervishes. Both seem equally deaf to the
dictates of reason.”</p>

<p>When they returned to Washington and to their home on Anacostia Heights
they knew that they had savored the full meaning of abundant living.
They had walked together in many lands and among many nationalities and
races; they had been received together by peoples of all shades, who
greeted them in many different languages; their hands had touched many
hands. They had so much they could afford to be tolerant.</p>

<p>Arrows of ignorance, jealousy or petty prejudice could not reach them.</p>

<p>In June, 1889, Frederick Douglass was appointed Minister to Haiti.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span></p>

<h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_Twenty"><span class="smcap">Chapter Twenty</span></h3>
</div>

<p class="center">
<i>The Môle St. Nicolas</i><br>
</p>


<p>Secretary of State Blaine was disturbed. All morning bells had been
ringing and secretaries scurrying around like mad. With the arrival of
the New York shipowner, even the clerks in the outer offices knew that
something was “in the wind.”</p>

<p>The “problem of the West Indies” was perhaps the most important
unfinished business left over from the former Secretary of State.
Blaine had seen himself succeeding where William Seward had failed.
Circumstances were propitious and favorably disposed; the Môle St.
Nicolas, most coveted prize in the Caribbean, was practically within
his grasp—or had been.</p>

<p>Haiti, after seventy-five years of maintaining itself as firm and
invulnerable as its own Citadel, was now torn and weakened by civil
war. Six years before, a provisional government had been set up under
a General Légitime. Gradually Légitime assumed control, and two years
later France recognized his government as official. But for reasons of
their own, business interests in the United States preferred dealing
with General Hyppolite’s opposing forces, who termed the present
régime that of “the usurpers of Port-au-Prince.” President Cleveland
had listened to their advice and not recognized any government in
Haiti. That left everything wide open. The U.S.-West Indies Line and
the Charleston &amp; Florida Steamship Line tackled shutting out the rival
British Atlas Steamship Company, and the dire need for coaling stations
was stressed in certain circles. At long last the United States had
high hopes of locking up the narrow Windward Passage, one of the
strategic routes on the world’s highway system of commerce.</p>

<p>Meanwhile Stephen Preston, Haitian Minister, was in the United States
pleading for his country’s recognition. Blaine played a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> cat-and-mouse
game, putting the anxious Preston off from week to week, yet according
him every ceremonial privilege as a minister and assuring him that the
matter of official recognition only awaited its turn before the new
President—Benjamin Harrison.</p>

<p>So matters stood in the latter part of May, 1889. Then Secretary Blaine
made two moves. He told Preston his terms for recognition: a naval
station in Haiti and representation of Haiti in European capitals by
the American ambassador to those countries! The Haitian’s olive face
paled. He murmured a few words, bowed and departed. The Secretary then
sent to President Harrison the names of an “investigating commission”
to go to Haiti. It was to be headed by Colonel Beverley Tucker of
Virginia.</p>

<p>Out of a clear sky, with no word of warning, Blaine’s papers still
lying unsigned on his desk, President Harrison recognized the Légitime
government in Haiti. At the same time he appointed the most widely
known Negro in America “Minister Resident and Consul-General to the
Republic of Haiti and chargé d’affaires to Santo Domingo.”</p>

<p>“A pretty kettle of fish!” stormed the shipowner.</p>

<p>Secretary Blaine struggled to maintain his dignity.</p>

<p>“A little premature, perhaps,” he temporized. “But our President has
gone on record as favoring the development of commerce with Latin
America, and we have no reason to believe that Frederick Douglass will
not co-operate in carrying forward the clearly expressed policies of
his government.”</p>

<p>“You are a fool!” snapped the shipowner.</p>

<p>The Secretary’s face flushed, and a vein throbbed at his temple.</p>

<p>“You forget,” he said evenly after a moment, “or perhaps you do not
know, that Frederick Douglass was Secretary of President Grant’s Santo
Domingo Commission; and Douglass had no part in its failure.”</p>

<p>“Whatever the reasons, what interests me is that the United States
didn’t get Samoná Bay.” The shipowner’s voice rasped. “I never trust
those—those <i>people</i>. It’s bad enough to have to do business with
them in the islands. Well”—he made a gesture of resignation—“I didn’t
come here to quarrel. You’ll simply have to handle this fellow.”</p>

<p>The Secretary picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. He was
wondering how well he or anybody else could “handle” Frederick Douglass.</p>

<p>“I’ve already dictated a letter to him in which I express the hope that
he will accept President Harrison’s appointment—”</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span></p>

<p>The shipowner interrupted with something like a sneer.</p>

<p>“You’re certainly going out of your way to be cordial.”</p>

<p>“<i>Ignorant calf!</i>” was the Secretary’s unspoken thought. Aloud
he continued as if he had not heard. “—because his influence as
minister,” he said steadily, “is the most potent force we can send to
the Caribbean for the peace, welfare and prosperity of those weary and
unhappy people.”</p>

<p>“Um—um.” The idea was penetrating. “Not bad, not bad at all.”</p>

<p>“It can be late fall before he arrives.” They regarded each other
across the flat-topped desk. “Meanwhile—”</p>

<p>“Meanwhile,” the shipowner was getting to his feet, “much can happen.”</p>

<p>“I was thinking that.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps the usurper, Légitime, will not be on hand to greet our new
Ambassador.”</p>

<p>“Perhaps!”</p>

<p>The gentlemen bowed and separated.</p>

<p>That evening Stephen Preston sent a joyful letter home. “A miracle has
taken place, truly a miracle!”</p>

<p>And on Cedar Hill the Douglasses sat on their porch and re-read the
letter which a messenger had brought from Secretary of State Blaine.</p>

<p>“You deserve it, my dear. You deserve every bit of it!” She smiled at
her husband, her eyes shining with happiness. Douglass’ voice was a
little husky. The letter trembled in his hand.</p>

<p>“Secretary Blaine is right. This is important to every freedman in the
United States. It’s important to that valiant small nation which owes
its independence to a successful slave revolt. This recognition is
important to dark peoples everywhere. I am so grateful that I’m here to
do my part.”</p>

<p>And Helen Douglass reached out and took his hand. She was proud, so
very proud of him.</p>

<p>Telegrams and letters of congratulation came in, not only from all over
the United States, but from Mexico, South America, Africa. A clockmaker
in Zurich sent Douglass a great clock carved from a huge block of wood.</p>

<p>Newspapers in the United States only mentioned an unexpected
“turn-over” in Haiti “because it might affect the recent appointment.”
But when on October 7, 1889, Légitime was thrown out of office and
Hyppolite became president, the Administration declared it a purely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span>
domestic matter, and the United States representative was instructed
to proceed to his post. Unexplained “troubles” had delayed Douglass’
departure, but now the reasons for keeping him in Washington rapidly
exhausted themselves. The first week in November, Douglass, accompanied
by his wife, sailed for Port-au-Prince.</p>

<p>Nature is lavish with her gifts in the Caribbean. They thought they had
seen her finest habiliments along the Riviera, but even world travelers
hold their breath or speak in awed whispers as out of the violet
distance emerges the loveliest jewel of the Antilles.</p>

<p>Across a bay of deepest blue, the purple of the mountains of La Gonaïve
loomed against the western sky as if tossed from the cerulean depths of
the gulf. Fanning up from the great bay rise the hills, wrinkled masses
of green and blue and gray and orange, their dim wave of color relieved
by crimson splotches of luxuriant gardens or by the pointed spires of
trees.</p>

<p>The city of Port-au-Prince spilled over into the water with its crowded
harbor, large and small boats and white sails skimming over the
surface. In the center of the city rose the great Gothic cathedral, to
one side the white palace occupied by Haiti’s President.</p>

<p>Two smart, attentive officials were on the dock to meet Frederick
Douglass. Behind sleek, glistening horses they drove the new Minister
and his wife to the spacious villa which was to be their home. The
house was already staffed with servants, who gathered, European
fashion, to greet the new tenants. The maids smiled shyly at Mrs.
Douglass, then whisked her away to her rooms. The officials took their
leave, saying that the President would be happy to receive Mr. Douglass
at his pleasure.</p>

<p>That afternoon, accompanied by his secretary, who would also act as
interpreter, Douglass drove to the palace to present his credentials.
He was cordially received by a uniformed adjutant. In a short while
they were being ushered up a wide, sweeping staircase and into a
frescoed hall. They paused here.</p>

<p>“There is the anchor of the <i>Santa Maria</i>,” the secretary
whispered, “the anchor Columbus lowered in the Môle St. Nicolas.”</p>

<p>Douglass walked closer. He was so deeply absorbed that he did not see
the huge doors swing open. The secretary had to touch his arm. The
President of Haiti was coming to greet the representative from the
United States, his hand extended. They went in to his study.</p>

<p>President Hyppolite was large and dark. He knew he was in a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> dangerous
game. He knew that he was only a pawn. Wary and watchful, he listened
more than he talked. For underneath everything else—far deeper than
personal ambitions—was his determination to keep Haiti out of the
scheming hands that clutched at her so greedily.</p>

<p>He hated all Spaniards, Frenchmen, Englishmen and Americans with equal
intensity. He studied this brown American, this ex-slave, who carried
himself with such dignity and who spoke with such assurance. Hyppolite
wondered how much the other man knew. He attended his visitor’s words
carefully, listening to catch any additional meanings in his voice. He
understood English, but he remained silent, his large head slightly
cocked to one side until the interpreter translated Douglass’ words
into French.</p>

<p>He answered in French. Choosing his words carefully, he expressed his
approval of “growing commercial intercommunications,” his hope for
closer and “mutually helpful” relations with the United States. Then he
touched upon Haiti’s long and independent existence and said that each
nation has the right to be proud of its autonomy.</p>

<p>“For a long time Haiti was an outcast among the nations of the world.
But Haiti remembers that the victory of Toussaint L’Ouverture was as
important to the United States as it was to Britain. By exterminating
the armies of Leclerc, we at the same time destroyed Napoleon’s dream
of an empire in the Mississippi valley. He was glad to sell Louisiana
at any price.”</p>

<p>The President was satisfied with the expression which lighted Douglass’
face when the interpreter had translated these words. His rather grim
face broke into a smile.</p>

<p>“I speak a little English,” he said in English.</p>

<p>Douglass grinned and returned with:</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr">J’ai étudié le francais—un—une peu—mais ma femme—</i>” he
stopped, spreading his hands hopelessly.</p>

<p>They laughed together then, and the rest of the visit Hyppolite spoke
English.</p>

<p>“Here you will learn the French—but quick,” he said. “Altogether we
will help you.”</p>

<p>Douglass expressed his own and his wife’s appreciation of the
preparations for their comfort, and President Hyppolite said that
without doubt Mrs. Douglass would be very busy receiving the ladies of
Port-au-Prince.</p>

<p>After Douglass had bowed out, the President stood for a few minutes
drumming on his desk. Then he pulled a cord which summoned a certain
gentleman of state.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p>

<p>“Your Excellency!” The man waited. President Hyppolite spoke rather
slowly, in concise French.</p>

<p>“The Frederick Douglass is an honorable man. He intends to discharge
his duties in a manner which will bring credit and distinction to his
people and to his nation. It is to be remembered at all times that Mr.
Douglass is, first of all, Ambassador of the United States.”</p>

<p>“Yes, Your Excellency!”</p>

<p>The President dismissed him with a nod. Then he walked to the window
and stood looking at the Square. From this window he could not see
the middle of the Champs de Mars, but he was thinking of the statue
there—the statue of a black soldier thrusting his sword toward the
sky. This statue of Dessalines is Haiti’s symbol of her struggle for
freedom. Hyppolite sighed as he turned away from the window.</p>

<p>He wondered if there might be a better way.</p>

<p>Back in Washington activities had been bent upon getting John Durham
sent as special consul to Port-au-Prince because of his “special
fitness for the job.” Once more President Harrison’s action proved
disappointing. He sent John Durham to Santo Domingo City. It began to
be whispered about in Washington and New York that the Haitians had
snubbed Frederick Douglass and his wife. Stephen Preston heard the
rumors just before he sailed for home. He suspected their origin, but
he decided to hold his peace until he reached Port-au-Prince.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>“Frederick,” Helen Douglass said, “this place will be my undoing! Such
ease is positively shameful. My only exercise is changing clothes for
another reception or dinner party. And the food!” Her voice became a
wail of despair. “I’m getting fat!”</p>

<p>He laughed.</p>

<p>“Well, madam, I might suggest horseback riding. I’m feeling fine!”</p>

<p>She shook her head.</p>

<p>“You? I can’t go galloping around these mountains the way you do.”</p>

<p>It was true. Frederick Douglass estimated his age to be over seventy.
Yet he was spending hours every day in the saddle.</p>

<p>“It’s the only way one can see Haiti!”</p>

<p>They took the boat to Cap Haitien, and while Helen was entertained
in one of the big white houses set on the slopes and surrounded by a
tropical garden, Douglass, accompanied by other horsemen, rode<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> up to
the summit of Bonne-à-l’Evêque. Gradually the earth fell away until
the rocky edges of the mountain showed like snarling teeth, and the
foothills below seemed like jungle forest. An earthquake in 1842 was
said to have shaken the Citadel to the danger point; but Douglass,
viewing this mightiest fortress in the Western world, doubted whether
any human army with all its modern equipment could take it. Christophe
had built his Citadel at a height of twenty-six hundred feet—an
amazing feat of engineering so harmoniously constructed through and
through that, though thousands and thousands of natives must have died
during the course of its construction, one could almost believe it the
work of one man.</p>

<p>Douglass stood at the massive pile which is now the tomb of the most
dominant black man in history.</p>

<p>“If a nation’s greatness can at all be measured by its great soldiers,”
he thought, “then little Haiti, with its Toussaint L’Ouverture, Jean
Jacques Dessalines and Henri Christophe, must surely be listed among
the first!”</p>

<p>Another day they took him up a high cliff overlooking the Môle St.
Nicolas.</p>

<p>“You have perhaps heard that Abbé Raynal called it the Gibraltar of the
West Indies,” the Haitian commented, watching Douglass’ face.</p>

<p>“See,” the second companion pointed with his riding crop, “the harbor
is practically landlocked. The entrance is only four miles wide and
deep enough on both sides to permit the largest vessels to pass close
to shore. At two hundred yards from land bottom is not touched with an
eighty-fathom line.”</p>

<p>Douglass gazed in wonder. The waters of the bay spread out, smooth and
unruffled as a great lake. The land on which they stood at the right of
the entrance rose sharply. Opposite, a wooded plain extended. At the
end of the bay clustered a group of buildings with the clear sheen of
water right in the middle of them.</p>

<p>“Man could not have designed anything so perfect,” Douglass murmured.</p>

<p>The first Haitian spoke again.</p>

<p>“They say all the fleets in Europe could lie here secure from every
wind. And the largest vessels in fifty fathoms of water could have
cables on land.”</p>

<p>“It is incredible!”</p>

<p>The Haitian turned as if to mount his horse. He spoke carelessly.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span></p>

<p>“A powerful nation holding this harbor might easily control not only
the Caribbeans but South America as well.”</p>

<p>“But a friendly nation,” Douglass reasoned with great sincerity, “with
the means at hand might use this harbor to bring prosperity to all the
Caribbean.”</p>

<p>“<i lang="fr">Ce soit possible!</i>”</p>

<p>Douglass did not know French well enough to catch the slight sarcasm in
the Haitian’s words.</p>

<p>As they rode down the trail they spoke only of the scenery.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>In November the United States warship <i>Yantic</i> steamed into the
Môle, and Douglass reported that frequent references in the American
press to alleged desires on the part of his country to obtain bases
there were arousing fears among the Haitian people. Strangely enough,
Douglass now found himself the point of attack by the press. They said
he was not the man for the post.</p>

<p>“The fault of my character,” Douglass wrote later, “was that upon it
there could be predicated no well-grounded hope that I would allow
myself to be used, or allow my office to be used, to further selfish
schemes of any sort for the benefit of individuals, either at the
expense of Haiti or at the expense of the character of the United
States.”<a id="FNanchor_33" href="#Footnote_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p>

<p>Events moved rapidly. Certain facts became apparent to Douglass, and
in March, 1890, he wrote to Secretary Blaine that certain American
business interests were bringing pressure upon Haiti. Douglass had
not at this time seen a report recorded by the Bureau of Navigation,
received January 22, 1890, which read:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>The strategical value of this Island from a naval point of view is
invaluable, and this increases in direct proportion to the millions
which American citizens are investing in the Nicaragua Canal. The
United States cannot afford to allow any doubt to rest in the minds of
any Haitian as to our fixed determination to allow no one to gain a
foothold on, or establish a protectorate over this Island.</p>
</div>

<p>Home on leave for a few weeks in August, Douglass spoke on Haiti to a
large audience in Baltimore. He noted he had recently been under attack
by the press of the country.</p>

<p>“I believe the press has become reconciled to my presence in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span>
office except those that have a candidate for it,” he said, “and they
give out that I am going to resign. At them I fling the old adage ‘Few
die, and none resign.’ I am going back to Haiti.”</p>

<p>Let us take Douglass’ own account of what happened the following
winter. It appeared in the <cite>North American Review</cite>, September,
1891.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>On January 26, 1891, Rear Admiral Gherardi, having arrived at
Port-au-Prince, sent one of his under-officers on shore to the
United States Legation, to invite me on board his flagship, the
<i>Philadelphia</i>.... I went on board as requested, and there for
the first time I learned that I was to have some connection with
negotiations for a United States coaling-station at the Môle St.
Nicolas; and this information was imparted to me by Rear Admiral
Gherardi. He told me in his peculiarly emphatic manner that he had
been duly appointed a United Sates special commissioner; that his
mission was to obtain a naval station at the Môle St. Nicolas; and
that it was the wish of Mr. Blaine and Mr. Tracy, and also of the
President of the United States, that I should earnestly co-operate
with him in accomplishing this object. He further made me acquainted
with the dignity of his position, and I was not slow in recognizing it.</p>

<p>In reality, some time before the arrival of Admiral Gherardi on
this diplomatic scene, I was made acquainted with the fact of his
appointment. There was at Port-au-Prince an individual, acting as
agent of a distinguished firm in New York, who appeared to be more
fully initiated into the secrets of the State Department at Washington
than I was, and who knew, or said he knew, all about the appointment
of Admiral Gherardi, whose arrival he diligently heralded in advance,
and carefully made public in all the political and business circles to
which he had access. He stated that I was discredited at Washington,
had, in fact, been suspended and recalled, and that Admiral Gherardi
had been duly commissioned to take my place. It is unnecessary to say
that it placed me in an unenviable position, both before the community
of Port-au-Prince and before the government of Haiti.</p>
</div>

<p>Anyone may read a carefully documented account of the negotiations
which followed in Rayford Logan’s <cite>Diplomatic Relations of the
United States with Haiti</cite>. There can be no question that Douglass
strove to carry out the wishes of his government while at the same<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span>
time “maintaining the good character of the United States.” He clearly
regretted certain features of the negotiations.</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>Not the least, perhaps, among the collateral causes of our non-success
was the minatory attitude assumed by us while conducting the
negotiation. What wisdom was there in confronting Haiti at such a
moment with a squadron of large ships of war with a hundred cannon and
two thousand men? This was done, and it was naturally construed into a
hint to Haiti that if we could not, by appeals to reason and friendly
feeling, obtain what we wanted, we could obtain it by a show of force.
We appeared before the Haitians, and before the world, with the pen
in one hand and the sword in the other. This was not a friendly and
considerate attitude for a great government like ours to assume when
asking a concession from a small and weak nation like Haiti. It was
ill-timed and out of all proportion to the demands of the occasion. It
was also done under a total misapprehension of the character of the
people with whom we had to deal. We should have known that, whatever
else the Haitian people may be, they are not cowards, and hence are
not easily scared.</p>
</div>

<p>Frederick Douglass was blamed for the failure of the negotiations. He
did resign the summer of 1891.</p>

<p>Logan says, “My own belief is that Douglass was sincerely desirous of
protecting the interests of a country of the same race as his, while at
the same time carrying out the wishes of his government and upholding
the integrity of that government. His failure was due rather to the
fact that there was no real public demand for the Môle, that Harrison
was not prepared to use force.... After all, the Panama Canal had not
been built; the United States had not even obtained her release from
the Clayton-Bulwer Treaty so that she could construct a canal under
her own control. The use of force against Haiti had to wait until the
canal had been constructed, until the United States had become a world
power, until a new period of recurrent revolutions had increased the
impatience in the State Department, and until the attention fixed
upon the World War permitted the military occupation of Haiti without
arousing too much protest in the United Sates.”<a id="FNanchor_34" href="#Footnote_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p>

<p>In 1893 the Haitian government appointed Douglass Haiti’s Commissioner
to the World Columbian Exposition at Chicago; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> in 1899 Haiti
contributed the first thousand dollars toward the bronze statue
of Frederick Douglass now standing in one of the public parks of
Rochester. Speaking in 1932, Dantes Bellegarde, Haitian Minister to
the United States, expressed the belief that were Frederick Douglass
still living he “would be among those who most ardently approved the
doctrine of international morality.... A policy respectful of the
rights of small nations such as had been exemplified in the activities
of Douglass while United States Minister in Haiti, is the only policy
capable of assuring to a powerful nation like the United States the
real and profound sympathy of the states of Latin America.”</p>

<p>Frederick Douglass was now nearly eighty years old. He had not retired
from public life. His snow-white bushy hair, topping the straight,
well-set figure was a familiar sight wherever people gathered to plan
a stronger, nobler nation, to build a more understanding world. His
faith in his country and in its ultimate destiny rendered him tolerant;
his ready wit was gentle. Little knots of people gathered round him
wherever he went and found themselves repeating his stories and
remembering best of all his rare good humor. The villagers in Anacostia
were proud of him. They told of the visitors who came from far and near
seeking his home.</p>

<p>On the morning of February 15, 1895, Susan B. Anthony arrived in
Washington to open the second triennial meeting of the National Woman’s
Council. This was her seventy-fifth birthday, and that afternoon Mr.
and Mrs. Frederick Douglass called to express their good wishes and
congratulations.</p>

<p>The big open meeting of the session was to be February 20. During the
morning Frederick Douglass appeared and, amid resounding applause, was
invited to the platform by the president, Mrs. Sewall. He accepted, but
declined to speak, acknowledging the applause only by a bow.</p>

<p>It was one of those bitterly cold days, and Douglass reached home just
in time for supper. He was in high good spirits. Even while he shook
off the snow and removed his boots in the hall he was recounting the
happenings of the day.</p>

<p>“Miss Anthony was at her best!” he said as he stood before the big open
fire, warming his hands.</p>

<p>“I’m a little tired,” he said after supper. He had started up the
stairs and stopped, apparently to look at the picture of John Brown
which hung there on the wall. His wife, in the living room, turned
quickly. The phrase was unlike him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span></p>

<p>And then he fell. He was dead before they could get him to his room.</p>

<p>All the great ones spoke at his funeral. Susan B. Anthony read
Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s memorial to the only man who had sustained her
demand for the enfranchisement of women at the first convention back in
1848.</p>

<p>There have been many memorials to him—in marble and bronze, in song
and poetry. But stone and wood are dead, and only we can make words
come alive. Frederick Douglass’ words reach us across the years:</p>

<div class="blockquot">

<p>Though I am more closely connected and identified with one class
of outraged, oppressed and enslaved people, I cannot allow myself
to be insensible to the wrongs and suffering of any part of the
great family of man. I am not only an American slave, but a man,
and as such, am bound to use my powers for the welfare of the whole
human brotherhood.... I believe that the sooner the wrongs of the
whole human family are made known, the sooner those wrongs will be
reached.<a id="FNanchor_35" href="#Footnote_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></p>
</div>

<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span></p>
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Epilogue"><i>Epilogue</i></h3>
</div>


<p>Any portion of the story of man’s struggle for freedom is marvelously
strange. This is a true story, and therefore some footnotes are
necessary. In many instances I have quoted directly from Frederick
Douglass’ autobiographies. His own words, with their simple, forthright
quality, form a clear picture of the man.</p>

<p>This book attempts to bring together many factors. I am therefore
deeply indebted to all who have labored long and faithfully in
compiling this story. Special mention must be made of W. E. B. Du
Bois’ <cite>Black Reconstruction</cite> and <cite>John Brown</cite>, W. P. and F.
J. Garrison’s <cite>William Lloyd Garrison</cite>, Ida Harper’s <cite>Susan B.
Anthony</cite>, Rayford Logan’s <cite>Diplomatic Relations of the United
States with Haiti</cite>, A. A. W. Ramsay’s <cite>Sir Robert Peel</cite>, J.
T. Wilson’s <cite>The Black Phalanx</cite> and <cite>The Journal of Negro
History</cite>, edited by Carter G. Woodson.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>It was on a Sunday afternoon in April that I first climbed Anacostia
Heights to Cedar Hill.</p>

<p>“Here are the terrace stairs,” they told me.</p>

<p>But I knew of the winding path that he had used, and I chose that. It
is tangled and overgrown in places now, but up I went until I reached
the sloping gardens and yes, there it was, just as I had expected, a
lilac bush blooming where the path met the graveled walk!</p>

<p>A typical Virginia homestead, with veranda, carriage house and
servants’ quarters, the house and grounds are preserved by the Douglass
Memorial Association of Negro Women’s Clubs. I stood beside the sundial
and tried to read its shadow, looked down into the well, and sat for a
while on a stone seat beneath a flowering trellis.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span></p>

<p>It was so easy to see them on the porch or in the sunny living rooms
with wide window-seats and fireplaces. Pictures looked down at me from
every side—Susan B. Anthony, William Lloyd Garrison, the young and
handsome Charles Sumner, Wendell Phillips and Abraham Lincoln.</p>

<p>I sat dreaming at his desk a long time, fingering his notebooks and
the yellowing accounting sheets upon which he had tried to balance
that pitiful bank record. On three sides of the study books rose from
floor to ceiling—worn and penciled books. Books about people were
undoubtedly his favorites.</p>

<p>In the rooms upstairs were pictures and intimate small objects of
family life, and in his room in a locked case I saw a rusty musket and
a flag.</p>

<hr class="tb">

<p>They opened the case for me, and I laid my face against the folds of
John Brown’s flag. There it was in this year of 1946, still furled and
standing in the corner of Frederick Douglass’ room.</p>

<p>I must have stayed in those rooms for some time, because suddenly I
realized it was growing dark and that I was alone. A glass door stood
ajar and I stepped through and out upon a little balcony, a tiny
balcony where one could sit alone and think. Surely many times on just
such spring evenings Douglass had stepped out on his balcony. Looking
far over the group of houses clustered at the foot of the hill, he
must have caught the gleam of the Potomac as I did, and beyond that
all Washington spread out like a bit of magic. Washington Monument
was not pointing to the sky in his day, but there was the beautiful
rounded dome of the Capitol. He could see that Capitol of which he
was so proud—he could contemplate all the intriguing pattern of the
city which he loved so much, capital of the nation which he served so
faithfully.</p>

<p>Then, all at once, as I stood there on the balcony, I knew why it
was that in the evening of his life Frederick Douglass’ eyes were so
serene. Not because he was lost in illusions of grandeur, not because
he thought the goal attained, not because he thought all the people
were marching forward. But as he stood there on his little balcony
he could lift his eyes and, looking straight ahead, could see over
the dome of the Capitol, steadfastly shedding its rays of hope and
guidance, the north star.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p>


<div class="chapter">
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Bibliography"><i>Bibliography</i></h3>
</div>


<div class="blockquot">

<p>Austin, George Lowell, <cite>The Life and Times of Wendell Phillips</cite>.
Boston. Lee &amp; Shepard, 1888.</p>

<p>Buckmaster, Henrietta, <cite>Let My People Go</cite>. New York. Harper &amp;
Brothers, 1941.</p>

<p>Douglass, Frederick, <cite>Narration of Frederick Douglass</cite>. Boston.
The American Anti-Slavery Society, 1845.</p>

<p>——, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>. New York. Miller, Orton &amp;
Mulligan, 1855.</p>

<p>——, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>. Boston. De Wolfe,
Fiske &amp; Co., 1893.</p>

<p>Du Bois, W. E. Burghardt, <cite>Black Reconstruction</cite>. New York.
Harcourt Brace &amp; Co., 1935.</p>

<p>——, <cite>John Brown</cite>. Philadelphia. George W. Jacobs, 1909.</p>

<p>Garrison, W. P. and F. J., <cite>William Lloyd Garrison</cite>. Boston.
Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Co., 1894.</p>

<p>Greeley, Horace, <cite>The American Conflict</cite>. Hartford. A. D. Case &amp;
Co., 1864.</p>

<p>Harper, Ida, <cite>Life and Work of Susan B. Anthony</cite>. Indianapolis.
The Bowen-Merrill Co., 1899.</p>

<p>Hart, Albert B., <cite>Slavery and Abolition</cite>. New York Harper &amp;
Brothers, 1906.</p>

<p>Ingersoll, Robert, <cite>Political Speeches</cite>. New York. C. P. Farrell
(editor), 1914.</p>

<p>Logan, Rayford W., <cite>Diplomatic Relations of United States with
Haiti</cite>. University of North Carolina Press, 1941.</p>

<p>May, Samuel J., <cite>Recollections of the Anti-Slavery Conflict</cite>.
Boston. Fields, Osgood &amp; Co., 1869.</p>

<p>Mansergh, Nicholas, <cite>Ireland in the Age of Reform and
Revolution</cite>. London. G. Allen &amp; Unwin, Ltd., 1940.</p>

<p>Ramsey, A. A. W., <cite>Sir Robert Peel</cite>. London. Constable &amp; Co.,
Ltd., 1928.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p>

<p>Wilson, Joseph Thomas, <cite>The Black Phalanx: History of the Negro
Soldiers of the United States</cite>. Hartford. The American Publishing
Co., 1897.</p>

<p>Woodson, Carter G. (editor), <cite>Journal of Negro History</cite>.
Washington, 1935-46.</p>
</div>


<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Footnotes"><i>Footnotes</i></h3>



<div class="footnote">

<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Douglass, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>, chap. xxii,
pp. 345-46.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> Douglass, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>, chap. xxii,
pp. 351-53.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> <cite>Liberator</cite>, Dec. 15, 1840.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. v, p. 288.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. vi, p. 249.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Douglass, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>, chap. xxiv, p.
385.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> <i>Ibid., loc. cit.</i></p>

<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> Douglass, <cite>My Bondage and My Freedom</cite>, chap. xxiv, p.
373.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> Nephews of Garrison’s old detractor.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> Letter dated August 28, 1847. Garrison, <cite>William Lloyd
Garrison</cite>, Vol. III, chap. vii, p. 202.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. iv, p. 55. (Origin:
<cite>Records of the Board of Trustees</cite>, Oberlin College, Aug. 28,
1840.)</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. vii, pp. 337-39.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. vi, p. 126.</p>


<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. vi, p. 133.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. vii, p. 147.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. vii, p. 153.</p>


<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> Du Bois, <cite>John Brown</cite>, chap. iv, p. 144.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. x, p. 385.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. ix, p. 397.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> Du Bois, <cite>Black Reconstruction</cite>, chap. vi, p. 157.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. xii, p. 442.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> Du Bois, <cite>Black Reconstruction</cite>, chap. xi, p. 464.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> <cite>New Orleans Tribune</cite>, Jan. 17, 1865.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. viii, pp. 467-68.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> The original of this petition was recently unearthed in
the Historical Archives of South Carolina. On the back of the document was a notation: “This petition was not read in the Convention.”
<i>Signed</i>; John T. Sloa, Clerk of Convention. Printed in article by Herbert Aptaker, <cite>Journal of Negro History</cite>, January, 1946.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> Congressional Globe, “39th Congress,” I, p. 74.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. xvii, p. 561.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> C. P. Farrell (Editor), <cite>The Political Speeches of
Robert Ingersoll</cite>, Dresden edition.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_29" href="#FNanchor_29" class="label">[29]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
chap. xiv, pp. 486-88.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_30" href="#FNanchor_30" class="label">[30]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>
(appendix), chap. ii, p. 631.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_31" href="#FNanchor_31" class="label">[31]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
III, chap. v, p. 647.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_32" href="#FNanchor_32" class="label">[32]</a> <i>Ibid.</i>, III, chap. ix, p. 707.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_33" href="#FNanchor_33" class="label">[33]</a> Douglass, <cite>Life and Times of Frederick Douglass</cite>,
III, chap. ix, p. 723.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_34" href="#FNanchor_34" class="label">[34]</a> Logan, <cite>Diplomatic Relations of United States with
Haiti</cite>, chap. xv, p. 457.</p>

<p><a id="Footnote_35" href="#FNanchor_35" class="label">[35]</a> <cite>The Liberator</cite>, March 27, 1846.</p>


</div>

<div class="transnote">
<h3 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h3>

<p>Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.</p>

<p>Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.</p>

<p>Colloquial spelling in dialog has been retained as in the original.</p>

<p>Footnote 9 has two anchors in the text.</p>

<p>Footnotes have been moved to the end of the text.</p>
</div>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75237 ***</div>
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