by Marian Wells
Slowly Alex’s hand moved over his pockets. “Everything’s there. You thought I was mugged?”
“I wouldn’t guess you to have wandered this far without help.”
“Nothing’s missing, so that possibility is out.” Alex looked around the room, saw the ink-stained coat hanging on the wall and remembered the odor that had assailed him as he stepped into the building. “You’re a printer?”
“Newspaper, The Liberator. My name’s Garrison. I’m also a Quaker. I’m most famous or infamous for my stand against slavery. From your accent, I have a feeling you may not wish to spend much time here. However, I’ll be glad to call you a hack.” He carried the mug of steaming coffee to Alex.
Alex took a mouthful of the scalding brew and felt the warmth ease through his chilled body. “Ah! Garrison? Are you the man they nearly killed on the streets?”
“That was back in thirty-five, probably about the time you were born.” The man’s smile was gentle. He pulled off his spectacles and polished them.
“I heard that back in forty-one you advocated the North seceding from the Union over the slavery issue. Why?”
Garrison sliced bread and carried it to Alex. “Better get some food into you, if you’re up to it.” He grinned down at Alex. “That is, if you can’t handle my words on an empty stomach.”
Standing next to the stove he watched Alex. “Because I believed that strongly in supporting the Constitution. President George Washington said in his farewell address, regarding the Constitution, that until it was changed by an explicit and deliberate act of the people, we have a sacred obligation to uphold it. To me it seemed a travesty to say we support the Constitution while allowing human bondage.” He paused and then slowly said, “Maybe I had a feeling in the back of my brain that all my stomping and yelling around would somehow get people’s attention, and that just maybe a few would catch the fever.”
“Of abolition?”
Garrison nodded.
Alex passed his hand over his face, looked up and asked, “Why now?”
Garrison stepped closer, and Alex thought he detected a flash of sympathy in the fellow’s eyes. Pulling a stool forward, he sat down and said, “I don’t follow you.”
“I don’t follow myself,” Alex muttered. “Head like a bladder of hot air.” He sighed. “I’ve been here nearly four years; now all of a sudden I’m being hit with the slavery issue every time I turn around.”
“Well, I’ll tell you something.” Garrison was grinning with delight. “In thirty-two the New England Anti-Slavery Society was established. They promoted the idea that every slave has a right to immediate freedom. That didn’t go over too well; in fact, you might say there was enough of the South in the North that our bunch was mighty unpopular.”
Alex rubbed his aching head and murmured, “You were very brave.” When only silence met his remark, he looked up.
Garrison glanced quickly at him; with a sheepish grin he said, “This may come across as pompous, but some of us see it as a divine mandate.” He lifted his hand as Alex straightened. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not judging your acquaintance with the Almighty. You have the same churches down South—Quakers, Baptists, Methodists. From what we hear, most of those churches preach the truth. Maybe even fearlessly.”
He paused, shoved his spectacles into position, and continued. “You can’t quarrel with the Almighty when He says, ‘Look here, this is my plan.’” His voice dropped into a brooding question. “What about the people who are hurt? You can’t quarrel with your Maker; you obey, even when you don’t understand.”
He leaned forward to peer at Alex. “I get a feeling—don’t know I’m right and won’t know until I have time to search it out in Scripture. But anyway, it might be possible when we make a big mistake, God takes us the long way back to rectify it. That applies to nations, too.”
The bang of the door and the voice came together. “Garrison!”
“In here, John.”
The man’s voice preceded him into the room. “Ten in the morning, and your press is silent!”
“Presses and ink are hard on headaches.” Garrison slid off his stool and clasped hands with the slender man coming through the doorway. “Come meet Alexander Duncan.”
Alex heaved himself to his feet and held out his hand. “It is my pleasure, Sir.”
The man peered at Alex as he shook his hand. “Southern, and in here with the editor of the Liberator? You must have very serious business. I’ll not bother you.”
“Stay.” Garrison extended his hand. “I rescued Alex from my doorstep, and it seems he’s lost a day of his life. Alex, this gentleman is John Greenleaf Whittier, one of America’s serious poets.”
Slowly Alex said, “Sir, I’ve read some of your work. And some of it is salt in the wound down South.”
“I’m surprised an abolitionist is allowed in the South, even if he’s on newsprint.”
“Barely tolerated,” Alex admitted, studying the slender man with the arms and shoulders of a farmer. “I don’t suggest you follow your papers into the South, but I would like to ask you some questions.”
“About my feelings on slavery?”
“No.” Alex paused, watching the open, honest face. “Sir, forgive me if my questions are presumptuous. Your poetry seems to reflect an intimacy with God. Is this an art form I don’t understand?”
“No, it is reality. I suppose you are referring to my alluding to the light within.”
“I gather this relates to your being a Quaker,” Alex said stiffly.
“No, it is more related to being human and having the touch of the Divine in our lives, which is what God the Father has planned all along. Through Jesus Christ.” John’s words reached through Alex’s silence. “Look, you’re not in condition for much of anything. I have my delivery wagon outside; let me give you a ride back to the college.”
Alex dropped his head into his hands. “Right now, I don’t feel like I can face the pack. Is there any place I can hole up around here? I need to do some thinking.”
“A woman problem?”
Alex looked up at Garrison, grinned, and then clapped his hands to his head. “Ouch! I wish it were so simple. I feel like someone turned the South upside down, shook it, and I fell out.”
Out of the long silence, Garrison said, “Just perhaps you can stick around long enough to learn to tolerate the smell of printer’s ink. I could use a hand around here. What rubs off on you besides printer’s ink might not hurt you a particle. Now come on and have a bite to eat; it’ll settle your stomach and maybe your head.”
****
Whittier faced the young man dabbing ink on the type. “Alex, you’ve been here over a week now. You’ve picked Garrison’s mind as well as my own. I have the feeling you’re hedging. Why don’t you just come out and ask the question you have on your mind?”
Alex stood up, and his head nearly touched the rafters in the press room. His eyes were troubled as he faced the poet. “Sir,” he said slowly, “to tell the honest truth, I’m not certain what the question is.”
“You’ve asked about the movement until I think I’ve about run dry of information,” Whittier said. “You’ve even attended a meeting. How do you feel about all you’ve heard?”
Alex wiped his hands. “I’ve been impressed with the dedication of these people, to the point where I am ashamed of myself. I get the feeling they’re poor people, and perhaps mistreated because of their fervor to free the slaves. But the question that’s stuck in my craw is Why? I want to know the whys behind their actions. I certainly can’t see myself acting like this.”
“I thought it was something like that.” Whittier folded the stack of newspapers. “You’ve been asking about the inner light until I’ve about decided I need to start asking you some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, maybe I need to tell you what I believe about the God and man relationship.”
“I’m not certain I believe in such a relatio
nship.”
“That might be why you can’t formulate a question.” Whittier glanced at Alex. “I suppose you’re a church member.”
“Of course, but I have a feeling that has nothing to do with the matter at hand. Whittier, I’m more interested in things of the mind than I am in a nebulous faith. I got all the religion I wanted when I joined the church.”
Whittier sat down on a bench and rested his arms on his knees, leaning forward he watched Alex’s expression as he said, “How do you feel about your relationship to God through church membership?”
Alex shrugged, “The way I’m supposed to feel—secure, comfortable. I’m happy with it. It’s just that I’m not content with life.”
“Have you considered the possibility that belonging to the kingdom of God may require more than being comfortable? I’ve had to do a considerable amount of thinking on this. I had to understand that being reconciled with God means being able to live before Him in a straightforward manner.”
“Mind explaining?”
“I had to decide whether Whittier’s ideas about life were more important than Jesus Christ’s.”
“That goes without saying,” Alex muttered, dabbing more ink.
“There’s a difference between saying and doing. Really believing demands action. If I say His thoughts are more important, I’d better make them mine. If His plans have a higher intelligence behind them, then why push mine? Get the picture? As a Christian I feel an obligation to find out what pleases the Lord and do it. Alex, I still must constantly check my desires, ideas, and plans against His.”
Alex shook his head. “That sounds like a heavy load. Granted, you make the light within sound attractive, but I can’t see myself living this way. Guess I need something a little more—earthy.”
“You wanted to know the whys of my life. That’s it. I can see this doesn’t seem exciting to you now, and I won’t bother you with more except to say that a genuine relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ is life changing. I am not the man I once was, and I treasure the change.”
Whittier watched Alex continue to dab ink on the type. His head was bowed. Finally with a sigh, Whittier got to his feet. “Might be we can talk about this later; for now that’s enough. Alex, you could discuss it with the Lord.”
“Thanks for explaining, John,” Alex glanced at him. “I hope you won’t be offended if I say ‘no thanks’ to your ideas. Somehow I can’t be convinced it’s what I need.”
****
Olivia came down the stairs just as the young gentleman turned. “Matthew!” she gasped. “They told me I had a visitor. What brings you here?”
She looked at his sober face and led him into the parlor. “Have you had bad news from home?”
“No,” he moved restlessly on the chair, chewed at his lip and said, “I guess this is crazy, but I’ve come to see if you know anything about Alexander Duncan.”
“Alex,” she said slowly. “That drunk young man you brought to the reception?”
“Well, he isn’t the only one who carried the title that night,” Matthew said with a small smile. “Sorry, sister, dear. We deserve your scorn. I suppose it’s a question of the utmost stupidity, but since Alex seemed smitten, I thought it was worth a try. You know he manages to ask about you at least once a week. Or he did. I don’t know where he is. No one knows.”
Smitten. Her hands touched her hot face. Will I never forget that outrageous kiss? She concentrated on the picture of the tousled dark hair, the teasing blue eyes. “I can’t forget the picture your friend presented that night. It was disgusting. Matt, I’ve had absolutely no communication with him, nor you since that night.” He winced and muttered.
“Now it is nearly the end of the school year,” she added. “What do you intend to do this summer?”
“Go home, of course. I don’t suppose Father has said anything to you, but I’ve already decided to step out of school next year.”
“You’re not going to school?” Olivia looked intently at her brother’s face. “I had no idea there was a problem. I did get the feeling that Mother wasn’t at all disappointed with me when I told her I wouldn’t attend the academy next term. She merely said we would discuss it at home.”
She stopped, thought again of those teasing eyes, and the words spilled out, “Oh, Matthew, here we are talking about school, and you don’t know where—what ever is wrong with your friend?”
“He was due to meet the scholastic board three weeks ago. I know that he had an appointment with a Mr. Mallory. The gentleman saw Alex, escorted him to the door, and that’s the last he has heard of him. Alex was to have seen him later, but he didn’t return.” Matthew jumped to his feet and paced the room.
“I feel responsible, mostly because I was the last to see him, and I didn’t get the idea he was terribly happy. It’s been that way recently. It seems we’ve spent more time in bull sessions than in class. But I do believe he valued passing his exams.”
Out of the silence, as Olivia thought back to that night, she asked in a timid voice, “You say he inquires about me? I wonder why?”
Matthew looked at her. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Matt!”
“Oh come on, Olivia; it’s simply because you are a girl.” He stood up and sighed. “I’ve got to go. Final examinations are coming up next week. Mother has asked me to escort you home, so I’ll be contacting you after the term has finished.”
“What are you going to do about Alex?”
“I don’t know. So far, the only action I’ve considered is writing to his parents. That will involve my going to the dean for Alex’s home address, unless I rummage around in his room. I don’t relish either. I hope the school has done something.”
He picked up his hat and headed for the door. “Will you please let me know what comes of the whole affair?” Olivia asked.
He nodded and clattered down the steps. Olivia leaned against the door and thought of the blue-eyed giant who had swung her around the kitchen and pressed those kisses on her unwilling mouth. Unwilling? Again Olivia pressed her hands against her warm cheeks.
Chapter 10
The view out Crystal’s bedroom window was of an old and gently settled part of New Orleans. She could see rooftops, gardens, trees, and on clear days, a slice of the Mississippi River. She could hear the hacks passing up and down the cobbled streets, accompanied by conversation in the softened syllables of the South or peppered with impatient French.
She smiled as she recalled the sometimes nasal quality of Northern speech, but her smile ended in a soft sigh. “Dear Olivia,” she murmured, “how I miss you, and how I long to see you again!”
As she turned from the window, Crystal glanced at the neglected writing desk, with its gilded feather quill and leaded-glass inkwell resting beside the box of heavy vellum stationery. Her sigh faded to brooding as she slipped her fingers across the paper and touched the pile of pencils.
The door opened and the dark face crinkled into a question. “Missy, you still here? Breakfast is long past. Want I should bring you a bite?”
“No, I don’t feel like eating. Has Mama gone to her room?”
The black woman, Tammera, nodded slowly. Her sharp eyes shamed Crystal, and as she turned back to the window, Tammera said, “’Tis bad it turned out so. Causing you to leave school, it did. I know you’re thinking otherwise, but your mama was desperately ill and the Massa thought it best to fetch you home.” Again a fleeting curiosity arose in Crystal as Tammera turned away, saying, “I’ll just tidy up now, then I won’t have to climb the stairs again ’fore lunch time.”
Crystal continued to gaze out the window at chimneys as the slave pounded the pillows and shook the comforter. “Missy Sugarlam—” The heavy voice cut through Crystal’s thoughts, irritating her with the familiar baby name. “You’s not helping us with your grumps.”
“I’m not grumping.”
“That mood’s as long as a snake, and the dear Lord knows it probably came from the ole serp
ent. Haven’t we talked enough about how a body’s to listen to the good Lord and not to that old enemy? Have your been forgetting the prayers you learned at old Auntie T’s knees? Now you just quit your moaning about being lonesome and set yourself down and write a nice letter to Missy Olivia. ’Tis a shame you’ve waited this long.”
“I suppose I just don’t know how to say it all. How do I tell her all when I don’t understand it myself? Auntie T, when Father came to Boston, we were all frightened. Now how do I say that Mama is well, I am bored, and everything’s come to naught?”
“Why you call your papa Father, like he’s a priest? Northern ways, huh?”
“I suppose.”
“I think he like his girl to call him Papa.” Now there was a gentle smile on the old woman’s face. She came to pat Crystal on the head and said, “Your mama is having her breakfast in bed. She’s feeling poorly this morning. Go take her a rose and she may give you some of her new writing paper for that letter. Now hurry along.”
****
Crystal paused in front of her mother’s bedroom door, suddenly feeling foolish. Staring down at the pink rose in her hand, she murmured, “Oh, Auntie T, why do I let you talk me into something so childish? I’m a grown woman, not a baby.” But a smile started on her lips as she remembered the countless times the slave woman had been there with her hand planted firmly in Crystal’s back.
Opening the door cautiously, she tiptoed into the room. Her mother wasn’t in bed, but was seated on the floor beside an empty drawer. “Maman!” Crystal rushed across the room as her mother lifted her tear-dampened face. Dropping to her knees, she peered into her mother’s face. “Have you hurt yourself? Did you fall?”
Shaking her head, her mother pushed aside Crystal’s arms and gathered a bundle of papers to her. With the papers secreted in the folds of her gown, she gave a painful smile and said, “Crystal, my dear, you are still to knock before entering.”
“Oh, Mama,” Crystal choked. “It was Tammera. She suggested I bring you this rose. I—” Crystal stopped suddenly. Spotting the faded ribbon, she realized her mother was holding the same bundle of papers she had seen bearing the name Evangeline Cabet. Catching her breath, Crystal reached toward the bundle. “Oh, I see—” Her mother tightened her grasp on the papers, shielding them under the ruffles of her dressing gown.
