by Marian Wells
The man’s grin was crooked. “Seems the marshal expected a great deal of trouble.” His face clouded. “Not that we aren’t capable of giving it to them. But there’s been enough bloodshed, enough heartache.” He turned and pointed. “What you see here today, young men, is a bunch of well-meaning but very confused people. See, we Yankees have about been set back on our heels.”
He paused, then continued to address the silent group watching him. Straightening, he thumped the path with his cane and said, “Some of the most able attorneys of the Constitution are stating we’ve no right to restrict the confiscation of that black man, even when he is on free soil.
“Men, I tell you, we are confused. Our hands are tied. We have sworn to uphold the Constitution, and while those Southerners jeer in our faces, we are rocking back on our heels—powerless to defend our fellow man. All because of the Fugitive Slave Act.” He dropped his head and his voice brooded. “Trying very hard to be law abiding gentlemen, we are. But it’s hard to forget that fellow’s look of utter dejection.” At that the gentleman turned and hurried away. Alex caught a glimpse of his face. The contorted features were wet with tears.
For a moment longer the fellows shifted uneasily, and then one of the group muttered, “We’re missing out on the show.”
Down on the wharf Alex and the others managed to worm their way through the crowd. They were standing beside the gangplank when they heard the drum, accompanied by the shuffle of feet.
Alex turned to watch the militia moving into position. Silence settled over the street as the black man, surrounded by guns and stern-faced men, walked toward them.
Alex moved closer, compelled to watch even as his inner core rebelled. The slave walked slowly up the ramp. For a moment he paused, lifted his head, and astonishment swept across his face. Alex watched the brief flare of hope as the man saw the streets packed with humanity. But while every face tilted upward, the man’s lips moved soundlessly. As a new expression stamped down on the black face, his shoulders slumped. That fellow isn’t expecting anything from the crowd, maybe even from life.
Under his breath, Alex muttered, “Fugitive Slave Law. That’s enough to make any red-blooded human feel like an absolute rotter.”
He heard a strangled sob coming from the black bonnet in front of him. The woman turned and lifted a tear-streaked face. “Mister, did you see him? Probably has a family. He’s being taken away and will never see them again.” She paused and looked toward the ship again. Slowly she regained control of her voice and said, “I can’t forget how I’d feel in his shoes. But for the grace of God, I’d be a slave, too.” She lifted her face again. “They have just as much right to walk this earth in freedom as we do. This country stands for justice and freedom for all, but that man doesn’t have it.” She turned and pushed her way out of sight.
The crowd lingered to watch as the steamboat gave a final toot and pulled away.
Wrapped in his thoughts, Alex’s head jerked at the blast of the boat’s whistle. Was its shrill noise a gesture of defiance? Someone besides Alex thought so. A voice rose above the crowd. “Musta been a boat from South Carolina.”
Restlessly the crowd moved, and then as one they started up the hill toward the Commons. Alex heard a lone voice. “Makes a body feel bad, seeing a fellow man treated like that. Especially when his hands are tied by a law he doesn’t believe in. Down underneath the skin, we’re all the same.”
Another voice murmured, “Some say the slaves don’t really want to be free. It’s hard to believe that.”
When Alex and his comrades reached the evening-shadowed grounds, a man was standing on a bench speaking to the crowd gathered in front of him.
He waved the paper he held. Although the people stood close and everyone was silent, he raised his voice and shook the paper. “In January of 1853, Wendell Phillips gave an address before the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. In this speech Phillips bared his soul, calling slavery a sin, making merchandise of men. And while in the process of buying and selling, like cattle for the market, families are separated—husband from wife, mother from infant. ‘Daughters are sold for prostitution and taught that they are being honored by their white masters.’”
He paused to shake the paper again. “Do you realize the Black Code of 1724 instructs the masters to give religious education to those in subjection? In addition, the code commands confiscation of slaves not educated or those forced to work on the Sabbath. It also forbids the illicit cohabitation between slaves and white. The code says slaves are to be properly cared for. So how come we so often hear of sickness, neglect, and hunger among these people?” He paused and then added, “In addition, while families are being torn apart at the auction block, how often does it happen that one of our black brethren finds life too wretched to bear, and thus he takes his escape in the depths of the river?” He whispered his urgency. “Gentlemen, am I mistaken? I get the feeling these people would prefer being free.” And then he shouted, “Along with Brother Phillips, I say these black people must be free!”
A voice came from the crowd. “Mister! There’s still the Fugitive Slave Law.”
“Then the law must be changed.”
Another voice added, “The law is inhumane. It fails to provide a jury trial. Anyone can be snatched up and labeled slave. I dare say there’s going to be trouble. The law compels any citizen to aid in capturing and returning these black men. Some of us would rather die than turn over a fellow man.”
A few in the crowd had started to move away when a white-haired man said, “There’s a group of us who’ve banded together and signed a petition. We won’t be a party to the law.”
Alex’s gaze was still fixed on the man’s face as the crowd drifted away. “Coming to the pub with us, Alex?” He felt the nudge on his arm and sighed as he turned.
Clemean was waiting for an answer. Alex hesitated. “No, fellas, I’ll be heading back now.”
****
With head down, Olivia walked slowly toward the residence hall. While she studied the clumps of violets growing along the path and between the stones, quick steps sounded behind her. She turned as Marjorie’s heavy voice hailed her. “Missy, come down to earth! Your nose is in the air all too often these days.”
“Well, it isn’t right now,” Olivia said dryly. “I suggest you look down at the violets. Did you see the white ones?”
Marjorie blinked. “Didn’t notice. Well, now that your friend has gone home, how about giving the rest of us some attention? Arabelle is having a party in her room this evening. There’s cards and goodies. Come.” She started to walk away, then abruptly she turned. “I hope we weren’t too hard on you and Crystal. See, we have problems with some of your values.”
Olivia’s back stiffened. “I suppose you’re referring back to the Stowe novel? It was an unfortunate choice. After all, America is built on freedom, and we Southerners have as much right to freedom as you Northerners.” As she spoke, another girl joined Marjorie. The serious, gray-eyed Annie Dudley was the unofficial tutor of the residence hall.
“Maybe we’re more curious than anything else,” Marjorie said. “Not many of us come from a culture as rich as yours. We wouldn’t know how to treat a servant. Tell me,” she added with a slight grin, “How do you handle a butler serving you coffee in bed?”
Olivia lifted her chin. “My servant is female. Mattie has been comforting my bruises and teaching me manners since I was a baby. If I can’t go down to breakfast with the family, she brings me coffee in bed.”
Annie’s gray eyes shifted from Marjorie to Olivia. “Marjorie, that is irrelevant. The greater problem is slavery, human bondage. I cannot imagine a comfortable life with outsiders invading my home. Or, with the knowledge these people were being mistreated in order to increase their effectiveness to me. Olivia, now that you’ve been in the North these past months, can you honestly consider returning to the South?”
Olivia felt her face flush. “Annie, that was a very condescending remark. Of course I shal
l return. Mississippi is my home and will be forever. Slavery is an unfortunate situation, but these people are unable to support themselves adequately away from our help. We are good to our slaves, and in turn they are loyal and happy.”
Olivia paused and took a deep breath before she pushed out the strong words. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you that you have a distorted view of the Southern economy. Certainly we are rich—”
“But not all of you,” Annie said softly. “The number of slave- holders with a significant number of slaves is very small. I know there’s a distorted balance of power in the South, both in the number of wealthy plantation owners and the political control that they hold.”
“For a hundred years,” Olivia’s clipped words slipped in, “my family has been working for the life we enjoy. I would not trade it for anything. Certainly slavery isn’t the ideal situation, but our land and economy demand it. It is impossible for us to survive without slavery. We have an obligation to protect the lives of these slaves under our care, and that we will continue to do.”
Annie said, “But there is cruelty in slavery. How can you stand to be in such a situation?”
That scene in her father’s field flashed across Olivia’s memory. She winced. “Yes, beatings do happen, but not a one of us wants it to be. In your society bad things happen and there must be punishment. It is the same with us. I still love the South.”
Marjorie stepped forward, “But to stay there forever? You aren’t taking into consideration other things. For instance, love. What if you were to meet a Northern man, fall in love, and choose to stay in the North?”
Olivia turned to look at Marjorie. “I can’t imagine that happening. I dislike the North intensely, the smoky factories and the poverty I’ve seen. Your factory workers are pathetic people; I can’t believe slaves aren’t better off. I hate the cold and dreary winters. I shall not stay in the North one moment beyond getting my education.”
“You aren’t dealing with the question,” Annie said. “Marjorie mentioned loving a Northern man.”
“If he would not come South with me, I should not even consider such a marriage.”
“The South means more to you than love?” Annie studied her face for a moment and then asked, “You would remain a spinster?”
“Oh, my no!” Olivia laughed. “I would marry. I’ve plenty of opportunities there. I’m simply saying I’m committed to living in the South first of all. There I will be happy with any man as long as he is Southern, comes from a good family, and has an estate of his own. But then, I suppose I’ll not commit myself to marriage for a number of years. I intend to enjoy life first.” She paused, adding, “Certainly I would never leave my home for a man, when there are plenty of good men in the South. My intention is to love intelligently.”
Marjorie began backing down the path. She reached for Annie’s arm, saying, “Well, anyway, we do want to understand you and make amends. See you at the party.”
Harriet Tipperman approached in time to hear the last sentence. Olivia turned and looked at her classmate as Harriet said, “Well, wasn’t that nice of her. Trying to make up for being snippy. I happen to think you were right to defend Crystal. Of course everyone knew she was Creole, but to insinuate that she was—more than that. She has such a big mouth. Marjorie, I mean.”
Olivia moved her shoulders restlessly. “To tell the truth, I’m very tired of the whole situation. Since Crystal’s left school there’s been a whole catalog of theories as to why she had to go. Why all the attention? Betty Foster didn’t rate it when she left. Why can’t they all accept the fact that her mother is ill? Now I am beginning to wonder whether she will be happy to return next autumn.”
Harriet pushed her limp hair out of her eyes and peered at Olivia. “What about you? Do you want to return?”
“I would be glad to go home right now. I miss the South.”
Harriet sniffed, “How come Southerners are so snooty about the South? Take that incident about the runaway slave. Those men just lorded over everyone. Why do they feel it is right to have slaves?”
Olivia tried to keep the annoyance from her face. “Harriet, I do believe it depends on where one lives. I really don’t see anything wrong with slavery. I have an idea that neither would you, if you had been born and raised in Mississippi.”
Miss Fensin hurried down the path toward them. Harriet groaned, “Old Fensin! I haven’t turned in my assignment. See you later.” She rushed toward the residence hall.
Reaching Olivia, the woman nodded. “Good afternoon, Olivia. I haven’t had opportunity to talk with you since Crystal has left. Have you had a letter from her?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” Olivia said slowly. “She promised to write, so this must mean she’s terribly involved with caring for her mother.”
“Do you know what the problem is?”
“No, and Crystal didn’t, either. You remember her mother escorted us to school.”
The woman nodded, “Yes, I recall. I also recall her mother was attended by a Negro maid.” She paused delicately and added, “For some of us who’ve had to struggle our way through life, it is a little intimidating to meet someone like Mrs. Cabet. However, I suppose it is commonplace to you.”
Olivia thought of home and the life she had so much taken for granted. Feeling nearly guilty, she watched the woman’s pinched face, replying slowly, “We all have problems of one kind or another, even in the South.” Hastily she searched for a topic, “I suppose mothers, most of all. Children never seem to quite measure up to what mothers expect.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted. Olivia leaned forward and whispered, “I’m a tomboy.”
Miss Fensin’s face cleared. “We wondered. Your brother Matthew and his friend had us a little concerned.”
“Would you believe they were so totally intimidated by the idea of going to a girl’s school, that—well, they went to a pub to summon up courage. Mother wouldn’t be happy.”
Miss Fensin took a deep breath. “But you wouldn’t keep company with such a wild young man, would you?”
Olivia thought about those teasing blue eyes, the kiss. “Of course not,” she whispered, “I don’t think he’s quite proper. Besides, I doubt those two will ever be invited here again!” As she laughed, Olivia saw the sparkle in Miss Fensin’s eyes and heard her giggle.
She was still thinking about the woman as she entered her room. Miss Fensin wears shabby boots, she thought. I don’t even know what it is to wear boots with a split seam letting in all the soggy spring wet. She fingered the newspaper lying on her table. Uppermost was the article that had disturbed her last night. Could that have caused the dream?
Running her finger lightly over the words, she murmured, “Mister, you sound like a poor white, a complaining man who feels the world owes you a living. I can almost hear you saying that you are poor because the plantation owners with their slaves are making you that way. I can nearly see the way your lip pulls down in self-pity.”
She read the words, They take our land. We dig our own stumps and whack away at the cane. Silently she continued to stir the words around with her finger as she thought about the dream.
She had been at home, seeing that raised whip again. So often she had recalled the black face and the agonized screams, only this time in the dream, when the whip descended, it struck a tender white back. And when the man screamed and writhed in agony, she saw Matthew’s face.
Chapter 8
Alex glanced up as Matthew came into the room. He touched his freshly shaved face and studied the sober face reflected beside his. “You look kind of out of it, old man. Change your mind about coming with me?” he asked as he turned around.
Matthew blinked, “You mean to see Mallory? Guess I’d forgotten about it. Think I’ll skip it this time. I’m a little tired of the whole subject. In the long run, I suppose I’ll come around to Mallory’s point of view.” His grin was twisted as he added, “Isn’t that easier than having to ream your mind of a lifetime of thinking patter
ns? In addition, my grades don’t look too good right now; I need all the study time I can get.”
Alex nodded. “I know what you mean. I’m glad this is my last year. Don’t have much left to do except meet the gentlemen and persuade them I ought to be admitted as an attorney at law. I’ll have my first meeting tomorrow; wish me luck.”
“Alexander Duncan, Attorney at Law.” Matthew shoved his hands in his pockets. “Sounds good, but it’s possible I won’t join the ranks for some time. Matter of fact, I’m strongly considering taking a year off. I suppose I could blame it on finances or something, but the truth of it is, I need a break from the routine.”
“Tired of it?” Alex questioned. “It’s rough all around; gets to be a real grind about now. I can’t say I blame you. Just don’t forget the studies altogether. Remember Mallory and the things he’s had to say about our responsibilities.”
When Alex reached for his tie, Matthew met his gaze, saying, “You sound like Mallory, shouting that we need more support from Congress. The same old song: we need our slaves, we can’t exist without them.”
“You don’t buy that?” Alex managed to keep his voice level, trying to deny the urge to question. As he waited for Matthew’s answer, he faced his own confusion, wondering what it would take to quell it completely.
“I just don’t like feeling manipulated.”
“Mallory?” Alex turned back to the mirror and jerked at his tie. “Nevertheless, for the sake of the South, I’ll go hear him out. Matt, maybe we’ve had it too soft,” he said quietly. “Maybe we don’t appreciate the struggle our fathers and grandfathers endured in the effort to build the dynasty we now enjoy.”
“Dynasty!” Matt exploded. “You make it sound like a farce!”
“Sometimes I think it is. Nevertheless—” He straightened his shoulders and the corner of his mouth pulled down as he added, “I’ll give Mallory another hearing.” Slowly he added, “Guess I’m obligated to do so. I’ve had a letter from my mother. She let it drop that Father had borrowed quite a sum from Mallory. She indicated it would be best not to mention the letter to Father. I guess he found a deal on land he can’t turn down. He’s that way.”
