by Frank Yerby
“It’s just that I had to wait so long for him,” Aurore said. “I’d thought and thought about it, and studied him from every angle. So when he finally took pity upon me, I knew just how to please him—or, what’s more important, I knew how to avoid displeasing him. He’s so good, really, in spite of the fact that he gets an unholy delight out of trying to appear most wicked.”
“Thank ye, my dear. But angels have always been notoriously fond of divils. Wine, Mrs. Drumond?”
Andre rubbed his pudgy hands over his ample waist.
“It’s been a good life,” he declared heavily.
“The best,” Amelia echoed.
Young Tom Meredith broke away from the other children and came running toward the grown-ups.
“Dad!” he cried. “May I go abroad to school next year? To Paris, Dad?”
Thomas Meredith looked at his son, and his big mouth widened into a smile.
“A Grand Tour, eh? What on earth gave you such an idea?”
“They were talking French back there and it sounded so beautiful. Especially Julie. And I couldn’t understand a word they were saying!”
Thomas Meredith put out his hand and pushed the wayward lock back from his son’s forehead.
“We’ll think about it, son,” he said. “Especially Julie, eh? Yes, we must give the matter a thought.”
XXIX
THE Merediths, father and son, lingered on at Harrow for more than two weeks. The day that they took their leave was one of those rare Winter days when the sun plays hide and seek with mountains of fleecy, purple and white clouds. The winter rains, for once, were late in appearing, so the long golden sunswaths slanted in over the burnished face of the river and softened the edges of the whole earth. Where Dan Meredith lay in his long sleep, the light was especially mellow; it seemed to lay like a glow over the grave and to paint soft haloes around the marble headstone.
Young Tom Meredith stood with his father beside it, the sunlight making golden fire in his bared brown hair. A little further off, Stephen and Julie watched them silently.
“Dad,” young Tom whispered.
“Yes, son?”
“Let’s leave him here. It—it’s a kind of heaven in itself. I’d get the horrors thinking about Dan lying in that half-frozen ground by King’s Chapel. But here in this sun and this air . . . Why, almost the whole year ‘round he can have flowers. Julie will bring them; she promised me.”
Thomas Meredith smiled gently at his son.
“Don’t envy the dead, son,” he said. “Who knows what life has in store for you?”
Tom looked up.
“You’re a wise one, aren’t you, Dad? But that’s too much even to hope for. Well—what about it, shall we leave him here?”
“Yes. And now we’d better say our goodbyes. The Foxes are a grand family. Our abolitionist friends rather oversimplify things; you see that now, son.”
He turned and walked toward Stephen and Julie. Young Tom followed, his grey eyes wide and grave.
Stephen put out his hand. Thomas Meredith took it firmly.
“This has meant more to us than ever I can tell you,” he said. “We’ll write—often. The country has need of men of good will in both sections. And if ever you visit Boston—”
“We’ll call upon ye. That may be sooner than ye think.”
Young Tom was holding Julie’s plump white hand in his own slender fingers.
“Goodbye, Julie,” he said simply.
The girl’s black eyes were searching his face.
“No,” she said. “Not goodbye—Au revoir, Tom.”
The slow red climbed into the boy’s thin cheeks.
“I—I don’t know what that means,” he said. “I don’t know French.”
Julie smiled.
“Someday you’ll know, Tom,” she whispered. Then: “You may kiss my hand, Tom; it’s customary, you know.”
The boy bent awkwardly over her hand, his face fiercely hot. Then he was gone, running toward the waiting carriage, without even a backward glance.
Thomas Meredith raised his hat toward the bélvèdere upon which Aurore stood, and made her a sweeping bow. From far off the little group could see the flutter of her white handkerchief. Then the two of them climbed into the carriage. The Negro clucked over the reins, and the horses moved off slowly.
“Dad,” young Tom asked, “What does au revoir mean?”
“It means ‘Until we meet again’. Why do you ask, son?”
“Oh . . . nothing . . . no reason, Dad.” He put his head out of the window and looked back toward where Julie stood, just in time to see her raise the back of her right hand to her lips.
“ ‘Til we meet again,” he whispered, “ ‘til we meet again!” And in his heart was a kind of glory.
Stephen turned to his daughter.
“Julie,” he began, but the tears were there in her eyes, growing faster than she could wink them away.
“So,” Stephen whispered; “already it begins. Never weep over a lad, Julie; there is none of them worth it.”
“Oh, but he is, Father, he is!”
“Perhaps—that remains to be seen. He does seem a good lad—that I’ll grant ye. Come on, we’d better rejoin your mother.”
As he turned toward the house, Julie suddenly caught him by the arm.
“The postrider, Father! A letter from ‘Tienne! It is—I know it is!”
Stephen took the bulky envelopes from the rider.
“Aye, ye’re right,” he said; “here’s one from ‘Tienne. But this one isn’t from him—it’s for him. We’ll have to send it on. ‘Tis from young McGarth, and ‘tis postmarked Boston of all places.”
Julie was dancing up and down like a plump pink kitten.
“Open them, Father,” she said. “Both of them!”
“Why what a minx ye are! I’ll do nothing of the kind. The one from Etienne we’ll read, but the other we’ll send on unopened. A man has a right to his private correspondence—even your brother, Julie.”
He broke the seals on the letter.
“Dear Mother, Father, and Julie,’” he read. “We finally arrived at the town of Lawrence after a horrible journey. I must confess that Ceclie stood it much better than I. She is becoming a most enchanting wife—very steady and capable, yet very devoted withal. Kansas, and particularly Lawrence, has proved a great disappointment to me. The town is a hotbed of abolitionists, who openly boast of their intention to make the territory over into a free state—which God forbid. Yet, so great are their numbers that I have no doubt that they will be able to accomplish their evil ends; therefore I am removing immediately across the border into Missouri where I am confident of obtaining just the sort of lands suitable for my purposes. My mail will reach me at the general post office of Lawrence until I furnish you with a more exact address. Until such time, I remain, your devoted, obedient son and brother,
“ ‘Etienne’ ”
“Oh, fudge!” Julie pouted. “He isn’t coming home!”
“Of course not, Julie. Ye shouldn’t have expected that. Come along now, we must let your mother see this letter.”
A few weeks later, Etienne Fox rode into the offices of the sheriff at Lawrence, Kansas. The sheriff took his booted and spurred feet down from his desk and greeted him courteously. The sheriff was violently, aggressively proslave, and between these two who had nothing else in common, this fact had made a bond. The proslavers were too much outnumbered in Kansas. The sheriff had a feeling that this slim, icily controlled young fellow was an addition to their forces that was not to be sneezed at. Of course, he was much too polite, and his ways were foreign; but there was nothing soft about young Mister Fox—nothing at all.
“Mornin’, Mister Fox,” be drawled. “What kin I do fur yer, now?”
Without answering, Etienne laid down the letter that Stephen had forwarded him from Walter McGarth. The sheriff took it up, screwing his face into an ugly squint. Reading was not one of his best accomplishments. He had to spell out the words.
“I take it,” he declared heavily, “that this heah nigger he’s talkin’ erbout run away from yer?”
“Right,” Etienne declared.
“Hell of a thing. The gawddamned ungrateful bastid not only runs away but gits hisself mixed up with them thievin’ abolishers! Well, rest easy, Mister Fox; yer’ll git yore nigger back. I’ll send a deputy after him this very day.”
“Thank you,” Etienne said.
“Good thing, too. Throw the fear of Gawd into some of these sonsofbitches right here in Lawrence.” He got up and walked to the door with Etienne. “How’s yore place acomin’?” he asked.
“Great. I’ve got most of it cleared already—and I’m expecting two dozen more prime niggers tomorrow.”
“Thet’s good. I’ll be aridin’ past thar some of these fine days.”
“You do that,” Etienne murmured politely, but with a complete lack of enthusiasm. “You’ll be most welcome.”
“A cold fish,” the sheriff muttered to himself as Etienne went out the door. “But he’s a real gentleman—no mistake about thet!”
Inch walked rapidly along the snow-covered sidewalk of State Street in Boston. With him was the venerable Frederick Douglass, striding with as firm a step as his youthful companion. Inch looked at the white-bearded old man in awe. That there was anywhere a black man like this one was something he had dreamed but never quite believed. But now he had heard the old man’s ringing oratory thundering out even in Faneuil Hall itself. That was a thing to be proud of no more than of the fact that Frederick Douglass was the living proof that a Negro could be a scholar, a statesman, a valiant champion of his oppressed people—and a gentleman. And he, Little Inch—a black slave lacking even a last name, unless he chose to call himself Fox, which, indeed, he’d never do, had been elevated to the company of such a giant. The thought made him glow, despite the cold.
It had all come about when the Millikens discovered how well-educated Inch was. They had introduced their black helper, who swept and cleaned their law offices and read Blackstone at night, to Wendell Phillips, Theodore Parker and Thomas Wentworth Higginson. These men had instantly seen in Inch a perfect medium of propaganda. Here, they could tell their audiences, is an example of the intellectual heights to which a black man can rise. Here is proof positive that Doctor Douglass is not an exception—that other Negroes can, if given the opportunity, attain as high a knowledge. Much was made of Inch’s perfect command of the French language—and the few Bostonians who could speak and understand that tongue were constantly tossing phrases at him. In short, Inch was being lionized by the abolitionists. It was a heady feeling, but his native caution bade him go slowly.
“When we are all free,” he said to Douglass—the phrase was a constant one now—“we’ll elect our own representatives to the Congress, and then . . .”
He never finished the sentence. For the long, lean white man who had been following him with the deadly deliberation of the South written into his every movement stretched out his hand and touched him on the shoulder.
“Yore name is Inch, nigger?” he drawled quietly. It was much more of a statement than a question.
“Yes,” Inch said, “what do you want . . .”
“You’re under arrest. You better come along quiet.”
“Now, see here,” Inch began.
“Go along with him, young Inch,” Fred Douglass said. “You’ll be taken care of—depend upon that.”
Inch looked at the white-bearded chocolate face, then slowly he bowed his head. The street was very cold, suddenly.
He was not, he discovered, to be kept like a common felon in the city jail. Instead, he was confined, under very heavy guard, in the courthouse. Inch wondered at the numbers and the heavy armament of his guard. Certainly it did not take fifteen-odd policemen to keep one slim black in custody.
What he did not know was that at that very moment Faneuil Hall was packed to the rafters with an excited, seething crowd of anti-slavery men and women. Wendell Phillips was pouring forth his most impassioned oratory, deliberately inciting the crowd to riot. But it was a curiously Boston style of rioting that finally ensued: coolly, carefully planned, with lieutenants to direct it.
Mr. Higginson and a few others were to proceed directly to the courthouse and wait there until Phillips arrived with the crowd from Faneuil Hall. Then, with an elaborate show of seeming spontaneity, an outbreak was to occur. During the confusion, Inch was to be rescued and spirited away to Canada.
Inch walked back and forth in the little anteroom that served him as a cell. Outside the sleet whispered against the windowpanes and the already fallen snow became crusted and hard. Listening to it, Inch shivered.
The Reverend Mr. Higginson drew his cloak up around his neck, and squinted into the driving sleet. Why the deuce didn’t Phillips come? It was confoundedly cold out here, and at any moment some policeman might emerge from the building and discover the plotters. The sleet thickened. Here and there a snowflake swirled through it.
Two short blocks away Wendell Phillips and Theodore Parker were standing on the glazed ice of the street looking at the wreckage of their carriage. The horse was threshing about between the splintered shafts, unable to rise. His left hindleg was broken in two places. Theodore Parker looked at Phillips. Mutely the abolitionist nodded. Parker walked around to the horse’s head, and began to stroke it gently. The animal quieted. Then holding his hand over the horse’s eyes, Parker shot the beast very cleanly between the eyes. The dark blood rushed out from the wound and covered Parker’s hand. When the icy air struck it, it steamed.
The two men set out on foot for the courthouse. But, long before they reached it, the mob had gathered, and the attack was under way. Confused, leaderless, the men hurled themselves through the drifts at the side entrance in Court Square, but one of the policemen had already locked the door.
At once a small detachment of the anti-slave forces streamed away from Court Square to return a few moments later with a joist. Twelve of the strongest men lifted it, and pointing it at the side door, started forward at a dead run.
Down below, Inch could hear the jolting, shuddering blows of this improvised battering ram. He stood there, frozen, listening. Stout as it was, the door could stand only so many of these terrific blows. It gave way at last with a splintered crash, and with a howl the mob poured through the doorway.
But the police were ready. Arranging themselves on either side of the door, they lifted their clubs and waited. Then, as the mob poured in, they brought the clubs down with all their force upon the heads of the abolitionists. It was all over within a few short minutes. Inch stood there weeping, watching the men hurled back, seeing them driven ahead of a solid wedge of blue-coated policemen out into the blinding sleet. Outside, the mob broke before the attack of the police, and started running away from Court Square, diving into every available street.
Afterwards, it was very quiet. The policemen returned, panting from their work, and led Inch away to another room with a stouter door.
The trial, which took place upon the following Monday, was a foregone conclusion. In its entirety, it lasted less than half an hour. Richard Henry Dana pleaded for Inch with all the skill and brilliance at his command, but there was no denying the fact that Inch was the person described in the articles presented.
At last, Commissioner Loring made an end. Looking down from the bench, he bade Inch stand forth. Adjusting his glasses, he read aloud:
“The prisoner, one Inch, a black of twenty-four years, is said to have escaped from the plantation Harrow, near New Orleans, Louisiana.’” He put down the paper and glared at Inch.
“Are you the person so described?” he thundered.
Inch nodded dumbly.
“And did you make such an escape?”
“Yes, sir.” Inch’s voice was barely audible.
“Then, gentlemen,” the commissioner declared, “I have no alternative but to return this man to his lawful owners. I am cognizant of your sym
pathies, which, to a degree, I share. But the law is the law! I hereby sentence this man to be returned to his master, one Etienne Fox, now residing in the state of Missouri, in proximity to that section of the Kansas border occupied by the town of Lawrence. Bailiff, dismiss the court.”
A policeman took Inch’s arm. As he was being led away, a young woman broke through the crowd and ran up to the bench. Wordlessly she slapped her hand down upon the bench, and a handful of tiny silver three-cent pieces clattered over it and fell to the floor. There were thirty of them. Two huge patrolmen led her away while the crowd rocked the courtroom with their outcries.
The following day, at high noon, Inch was led from his cell into the full light of day. It was a bright sunshiny day, very clear and very cold, yet both sides of State Street were lined with men and women. Inch looked about him in awe. Every four feet along the entire length of the street a soldier stood with fixed bayonet to keep the crowd back. Three huge, ugly cannon commanded the sidewalks, loaded with grapeshot, their fuses cut and ready. The Suffolk County Militia was present too, holding their nondescript weapons awkwardly, and casting sheepish glances at their disapproving neighbors.
Inch walked slowly at first with his head sunk upon his chest. But out of the corner of his eye he saw shop after shop closed and draped in black. Even the flags were at half mast, and reversed, so that the blue field with the stars hung down while the striped end was attached to the poles. As the little procession passed the Old State House, Inch could see a huge coffin swinging in the air, bearing the inscription:
“The Funeral of Liberty!”
On the sidewalks the women wept and the men hissed and booed the soldiers. Slowly Inch straightened. By the time he reached Long Wharf where the revenue cutter was waiting to bear him away, he was walking fully erect, his slim back very stiff and proud.
XXX
STEPHEN FOX sat looking out of the window of his study. It was a warm day, and before him on the table the great ledger books and dozens of old letters lay scattered in careless profusion. Under his hand lay a blank sheet of paper on which he had written the date: “June 17, 1858,” and the words: “My dear Julie.” But the pen was held loosely between his thumb and forefinger; he had written nothing more.
