by Michael Ross
✳ ✳ ✳
Albinia glanced up from her work at the dressmaker’s, surprised to see Will and Julia across the street at the stage depot. She had not known her sister was returning today. Her hands mechanically kept stitching the Jenny Lind collar on the blue-and-white gingham day dress she was making for the mayor’s wife. Julia and Will were talking with a tall, stocky blond man and then quickly turned away and left in the wagon. Albinia wondered at this, since Julia usually did not talk to strangers.
The bell rang, and Albinia went to the front of the shop. She broke into a smile, seeing a slight dark-haired familiar woman.
“Katy! What brings you here? Did I leave something at your place last night?”
“No, no. I just wondered if you’d be staying with us tonight too. Ma wants to know how many for supper.”
“You are so kind to give me a place to sleep at times, to prevent so many trips to town. I wouldn’t want to impose. No, I’ll be going home tonight. Will is taking me.”
“Are you sure? Ma’s having fried chicken.”
“Stop tempting me!” Albinia laughed. “I really should go home. Ma gets worried when I’m out too many nights. Thanks, though.”
Watching Katy leave, she noticed Luther, Lucy’s slave from Ashland, entering the dry goods store, apparently on an errand. She wondered at Lucy sending him out alone, after the incident with Jameson, which she had heard about. Then the figure of Sean Flanagan drove down the street and she revised her opinion—Lucy must have sent Flanagan as insurance that Luther would not be harmed.
She turned her attention back to her stitching. The shop paid her by completion. It was up to her how long she worked each day. Tiring, she carefully folded the dress, extra material, and other supplies. She put them in her assigned cubbyhole. Mrs. Gordon, the owner of the store, was very strict with her girls about neatness and keeping track of supplies and orders.
As she emerged from the shop, locking up and carrying her reticule, she noticed a large poster on the signboard outside the shop advertising a meeting of concerned, God-fearing citizens, to discuss slavery, and featuring the famous journalist, William Lloyd Garrison. The meeting was set for this evening. She knew Will had drill for the Rifles, so she decided at once to attend and hear this great speaker. She could still ride home with Will if she left the meeting early. Though she had grown up seeing the great Lexington slave markets and pens all her life, for some reason, her contact with Luther tugged at her heart. She began to see the sadness and anger, as well as the mirth, behind the expressions of the slaves around her that she encountered in town. More than once recently she passed an auction, witnessing the hopeless, vacant look in a mother’s eyes as her children were sold to different owners. Somehow, she had begun to see the slaves as people rather than as a means for white privileged folk to get what they wanted. In town, away from her father’s scrutiny, she had begun to read discarded newspapers, even once seeing a copy of The Liberator, published by Garrison, as well as the opposing views of the Journal, denouncing him. Will might come looking for her after drill, but if she hurried, she could meet him at the drill field before he became suspicious. She knew without a second thought that her father would not approve of a young woman going to an abolitionist meeting, especially unescorted. She almost laughed at the look she could imagine on her mother Sara’s face if she knew what her daughter had planned– scandalized would not begin to describe it.
Just then, Luther emerged from the dry goods store carrying some very large and apparently heavy boxes. Someone had discarded a cigar, still burning, on the board plank step leading to the street from the store, where Flanagan’s wagon waited for the supplies. Luther could not see the ground, and his bare foot landed square on top of it. Grimacing in pain, he stumbled and dropped the top box. She heard a tinkling sound, as if from broken glass. Luther set the other boxes on the end of the wagon. Flanagan suddenly appeared, cursing the boy.
“Ye lummox! Now look what you’ve done! It’s broken and ordered all the way from Philadelphia! An whose hide is it d’ye think the Clays will be seekin’, eh? Mine, that’s what! Because I came as yer nursemaid!”
A blackjack club appeared in his hand, and he beat Luther on the head and shoulders, drawing blood. Luther raised his arms to protect his head, and received a vicious kick in the ribs, rolling him into the street, where he lay moaning.
Albinia turned away, horrified, and walked to the corner hotel with a small café suitable for a lady. She sat at a table near the window and tried to think through what she had just seen. A boy, beaten for an innocent mistake. She had always been aware of slavery—you could not live in Lexington without seeing it firsthand. Fully one fifth of the population were slaves. However, rarely had she actually witnessed violence. She had heard stories, of course, but as a young lady, her parents shielded her from the ugly truth, the dehumanization of slavery. She shivered, suddenly adding up the things that had been at the edge of her consciousness. She remembered the sad look in the eyes of Luther and the other slaves at Ashland when they thought no one was looking. She envisioned the slave pens down by the docks, where slaves were crowded in like cattle. She remembered her father’s preference that she not work on Fridays when the slave auction took place. Each piece fell into place, forming a horrifying reality. In her mind, again the blackjack fell, the blood spurted. Anger and resolve replaced revulsion. She would go to that meeting, and she would find a way to help.
She arrived at the hall, and found a small crowd milling outside. The doors were not open yet. Those gathered were overwhelmingly male, very few women, and none of the women was dressed even as well as she was. The men appeared to be tradesmen, though there were one or two gold-headed canes in the group, congregated together, and talking animatedly. A few police arrived in a wagon, looking to prevent trouble. Albina moved toward the door, trying to get out of the street. She was standing at the window of the assembly hall, next to an older gentleman in a dark gray broadcloth suit and top hat. He wore an expensive suit, she noticed, with a row of buttons down each side. Albinia heard a commotion toward the end of the street. A group of men with torches were shouting angrily and moving in her direction. The gentleman next to her looked at the ruffians, trying to see what they were doing. He spoke to one of the policemen, and the doors to the hall opened. Just at that moment, a rock arced through the air, smashing the window next to Albinia. There was a gunshot, then pandemonium. She ducked, bumping the man, and jostled forward on the human wave, pushed into the hall. Everyone was trying to escape at once. Police formed a barrier to keep the men with torches from entering. She could hear the mob shouting insults. Albinia turned to the gentleman.
“I beg your pardon, sir! I didn’t mean to bump you!” She noticed with alarm that he had pistols strapped inside his coat.
He smiled, “Quite the ruckus, isn’t it? No problem at all, Miss…?”
“Crump. Albinia Crump.”
“Cassius Clay at your service. Have you attended one of these meetings before, or heard Mr. Garrison?”
“No. No, I never have. I’ve just witnessed violent cruelty to a slave. Are you related to the Ashland Clays?”
“Yes, cousins.”
“You know Lucy, then?”
“No, I’ve not had the pleasure. Her father and I are … not close. I heard Mr. Garrison speak when I was at college and came away convinced of the evils of slavery, though my family has owned slaves. I’ve worked ever since to defeat it, though it has not always won friends for me. You’re not hurt?” he said, gesturing to the hole in the window.
“No, just shaken, I suppose,” said Albinia.
“Understandable. Allow me,” he said, offering his arm, and escorted her to a seat near the front of the hall.
“I ... ah ... may have to leave early, Mr. Clay. My father does not know that I am here, and my brother is drilling with the Lexington Rifles. He’ll be my ride home.”
“Ah, secrets, then? Safe with me. Allow me to have my valet escort you
when you need to go. David?” said Mr. Clay, motioning to a man in the shadows. “Please see Miss Crump to the Academy grounds safely, whenever she wishes to go.”
Albinia was surprised to see a tall young white man, in a waistcoat, rather than a Negro servant. His auburn hair curled untidily over one ear, and his copper-colored spectacles gave him a studious look on an otherwise handsome face, with intense green eyes spaced evenly, a long straight nose, and a high forehead. A watch fob peeked out of the waistcoat pocket, and he bowed politely to Albinia. “At your service, Miss,” said David, retreating to the shadows at the edge of the hall. As he moved away, Albinia glimpsed a derringer in another pocket, but her heart involuntarily skipped a beat—such a handsome young man.
The hall began to fill, and the noise at the back died down, muffled by the buzz of voices as those seated conversed in muted tones. After a few minutes, a well-dressed man appeared on the stage and signaled for quiet.
“We thank you all for coming. The plight of the many enslaved in our nation, who only want to escape across the border to freedom and prosperity, is known to most of you. Born into a life of poverty, hard labor, and abuse, with no means of bettering themselves save risking their lives to escape, our black brethren have few to champion them. With the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, even that escape may not be enough to save them from the cruel chains of slavery, excepting a few cities brave enough to stand up to the tyranny of the government and the minions of the South, giving sanctuary to runaway slaves and sending the slave catchers home, empty handed. Mr. Garrison, our speaker this evening, has risked life and fortune to bring them to the attention of Christian hearts everywhere. Without further ado, I give you William Lloyd Garrison!”
On the other side of the hall, a man stood and shouted, “Thieves! Traitors!” but the crowd largely ignored him. Their attention turned to the man stepping on stage. His black coat was of the best material, his bow tie neatly tied under a flaring white collar. He had a receding hairline that left the front of his head bald, but this only enhanced the intelligent looks of the brown eyes, spectacles, and thin mouth. Once Garrison began to speak, everyone quieted down, as his booming voice filled the hall.
“Let me define my positions, and at the same time challenge anyone to show wherein they are untenable. I am a believer in that portion of the Declaration of American Independence in which it is set forth, as among self-evident truths, “that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Hence, I am an abolitionist. Hence, I cannot but regard oppression in every form—and most of all, that which turns a man into a thing—with indignation and abhorrence. Not to cherish these feelings would be recreancy to principle. They, who desire me to be dumb on the subject of slavery, unless I will open my mouth in its defense, ask me to give the lie to my professions, to degrade my manhood, and to stain my soul. I will not be a liar, a poltroon, or a hypocrite, to accommodate any party, to gratify any sect, to escape any odium or peril, to save any interest, to preserve any institution, or to promote any object. Convince me that one man may rightfully make another man his slave and I will no longer subscribe to the Declaration of Independence. Convince me that liberty is not the inalienable birthright of every human being, of whatever complexion or clime, and I will give that instrument to the consuming fire. I do not know how to espouse freedom and slavery together.”
Garrison continued, linking Christianity and abolition, imploring for common sense. Albinia was spellbound, but noticed uncomfortable looks, whispers, and murmurings around her. Clay, next to her, seemed unperturbed, but many of the gentlemen with trappings of wealth shifted restlessly. A heckler near the back stood and shouted, “And you gonna feed ‘em? S’pose you’ll have’em to Sunday dinner and marry your daughter!” He laughed nastily, getting a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Garrison interrupted his discourse to look at the man and said, “Perhaps, one day, the color of a man’s skin and the money in his pocket will not matter so much as the character in his heart. I pray that day comes quickly. In the meantime, sir, I have met many former slaves with better manners than yourself. Perhaps you could learn from them!”
This drew a howl of laughter from the crowd, and the man sat back down, glowering. Garrison continued his speech, winning at least grudging admiration from most of the crowd for his boldness in declaring the abolitionist manifesto. Before Albinia knew it, he was wrapping up, making his final remarks.
“What then is to be done? Friends of the slave, the question is not whether by our efforts we can abolish slavery, speedily or remotely—for duty is ours, the result is with God; but whether we will go with the multitude to do evil, sell our birthright for a mess of pottage, cease to cry aloud and spare not, and remain in Babylon when the command of God is ‘Come out of her, my people, that ye be not partakers of her sins, and that ye receive not of her plagues.’ Let us stand in our lot, ‘and having done all, to stand.’ At least, a remnant shall be saved. Living or dying, defeated or victorious, be it ours to exclaim, ‘No compromise with slavery! Liberty for each, for all, forever! Man above all institutions! The supremacy of God over the whole earth!’ “
Albinia stood, and looking to where David stood at the edge of the room, made her way toward him, after thanking Clay.
“Sir, there is really no need for you to accompany me. I am used to going about the city streets. I must go and meet my brother quickly or stay in town all night.”
“Miss Crump, you may be used to the streets, but the hour is late. Please let me take you in Mr. Clay’s buggy. It will be swifter and safer. You may not realize it, but just being at this meeting makes you a target. Mr. Clay has received death threats for his views. Standing for liberty has a definite price. There might be those who would take advantage of your position to harm you. Let me entreat you to accept my services,” said David sincerely.
Albinia looked at him, searching the green eyes, and, seeing softness and sincerity, decided to accept.
“Well, it would help to arrive quickly. I’m not in the habit of accepting rides from unknown gentlemen, but perhaps in this case, Mr. …?”
“Horner. David Horner. I have been in Mr. Clay’s service for some years. Let’s go then, since you are in a hurry.”
David parted the crowd before her, and escorted her out a back way, conferring briefly with his employer, who agreed to await his return. He assisted her into the light buggy, looking into her eyes, holding her arm a fraction longer than necessary, she noticed. The buggy had two matched bays in harness. As they emerged from the side street, Albinia was glad she accepted the ride, seeing that the mob assembled prior to the speech was still there, and pelting those emerging from the hall with refuse and epithets. She heard cries of “Lynch him! Let’s get him, boys!” A few noticed their departure and broke off to give chase. A rock shattered the lantern on Albinia’s side of the buggy. She crouched in fear, but the pursuers swiftly fell behind as David urged the horses forward at breakneck speed.
“Is it always like this?” Albinia asked as they drove.
“Often, and sometimes worse. In New York a quarter century ago, they had some intense riots. The depth of feeling on the issue of slavery stirs the passions of many people, both ways. Mr. Clay and I have been committed to working for freedom in the political arena for some time. Men have attacked Mr. Clay on the streets. Any abolitionist risks censure, social disapproval, and sometimes his own safety. If you’ll forgive me, I find it amazing that as a woman you would expose yourself to that kind of risk—perhaps you were unaware?”
“I was, but that doesn’t change anything. After hearing Mr. Garrison, it simply increases my resolve to try to be of some help. After all, belief without action is dead, is it not? That’s what the Bible teaches.”
“Yes, but do you know what you’re risking? Truly being involved in abolition goes beyond meetings and speeches. Your status as a woman would n
ot be protection enough. There are those who would try to sully your reputation, hurt your family, perhaps even harm you physically,” he said delicately.
“Is not God our protector? What can I do?” Albinia wanted to know.
“If you’re really sincere about wanting to help, I can put you in contact with abolitionists helping slaves. However, I urge you to consider carefully and talk to your family. It is not something to do lightly. You could be put in prison for helping. It’s probably best to just pray and leave the actual work to those better able to defend themselves, and with less to lose.”
“Mr. Horner, do not mistake me for one of your drawing room lilies that chases first this fancy, and then that, nor yet some flighty flibbergibbet that impulsively jumps over cliffs without looking. I admit I did not know the intensity and violence of the opposition, but that does not deter me. What I’ve seen today, and what I’ve heard from others, convinces me of the justice of fighting for freedom. If God has a role for me in that fight, then shall I shirk to take it up?”
David pulled the horse up at the parade ground, seeing the Rifles milling about having finished their drill. He gazed at her a moment then said, “You are remarkable, then.” Gesturing toward the soldiers, he said, “But have you thought about your family? You say your brother is in the Rifles. Clearly, he must not share your zeal for slaves’ freedom. And your father? What will he say? I presume you are unmarried. And your friends? Did you not say you were friendly with Lucy Clay?”
Flushing a little, Albinia drew herself up. “Yes, I am unmarried. As for my family and friends, I do not know. But I know what God will think of me if I shrink back, and that in the end is all that matters.”
David helped her down from the buggy, pressing a card into her hand. “I can be found at the address on the card in the evenings. Please think and pray carefully. If you are still determined to be involved, you can send word and I will contact you. For your own safety, do not speak of this openly. I cannot really encourage you, but if you will persist, then there are those who would use your help. Until then, I bid you adieu.” He held her hand longer than necessary, and her eyes with a fond gaze, then turned and climbed back into the buggy.
