This reply so outraged the Paxmores that they sought final arbitrament from that unflagging champion of New England rectitude, John Quincy Adams, once President of the Union, now its principal defender in Congress. He had been looking for just such a case to exploit, and dispatched an investigator, a gentleman from Illinois, to verify the Paxmores’ charges. The marshal, an anti-slavery man, returned to Washington with proof that the postmaster had been burning United States mail.
A scandal might have resulted, because Adams, a cantankerous, mutton-chopped old warrior of eighty-one, was determined to fight such impropriety. This was not necessary. A compromise was arranged whereby Postmaster Cater was removed from his job at Patamoke and offered a much better one by the patriots of South Carolina, where he continued to burn any mail he considered seditious.
His departure had a strange aftermath. When Cudjo gained his freedom, he moved into Patamoke and started a business of his own. He was a carpenter, a mechanic, a boatbuilder, a fixer, a gardener, an extra hand on boats tonging oysters. He was offered a permanent job at Paxmore’s boatyard, but he had such an insatiable desire for freedom that he wanted to be his own boss, even though that meant occasional periods of slack employment.
Since Eden continued to work at Rosalind’s Revenge, so as to be close to crippled Susan, a curious household developed. For about two weeks of every month Eden lived with Cudjo in the shack in Patamoke, helping to raise their two sons; then she would board one of the Steed boats and go back to Devon for a couple of weeks, and it was during one of these trips that Paul Steed told her, “Eden, now that you and Cudjo are free, you’ve got to take a last name.” This was a reasonable suggestion in that the possession of such a name was one of the marks of a freed black, but neither Eden nor Cudjo had ever had a name.
“I got no idea,” Eden said.
At the moment she spoke Paul happened to be looking at a letter and was irritated to think that the Paxmores had been able to embarrass a postmaster who had been doing such a good job. Then the idea came to him: “Eden, Mr. Cater was moved south. His name is needed no more.”
So Cudjo and Eden became the Caters, and whenever the Steeds mentioned the name, it reminded them of their antagonism to the Paxmores.
Paul Steed tried three times to lure Daniel Webster to Devon, and to do so was important, for in the fight for the railroad, support from the great New Englander was essential. He was the most powerful man in the Senate and commanded the most faithful following among the leaders of industry.
He was too busy with governmental matters to make the long journey from Washington, even though it was understood that Steed would send the plantation boat to fetch him. And then one day, unannounced, a Mr. Walgrave from New Hampshire appeared at the island with exciting news: “If you could see your way clear to invite to the meeting these gentlemen ...” and he handed Paul a list of names representing the most prosperous businessmen of the Eastern Shore, Delaware and Baltimore.
“I would be proud to invite such men,” Steed said. “But would they come?” And Mr. Walgrave, a small fussy man who spoke in whispers, said, “I think they might be interested in talking directly with the senator. I think you’ll find them receptive.”
“If you feel so certain,” Paul said in some perplexity, “why doesn’t Senator Webster himself ...”
“Oh no!” Walgrave whispered. “That would be highly improper. But if the invitation came from you ...”
“I’ll certainly try,” Paul said. “This railroad ...”
“Oh!” the New Hampshire man said, “you’ll find the senator most interested in railroads. Yes, indeed.”
So the invitations went out, and almost every man who received one replied that he would indeed like a chance to visit with the great senator. Arrangements were made to sleep the visitors in all parts of the mansion, in the office and even in two overseers’ cottages freshened up for the occasion. Guests began arriving two days before the scheduled conference, and maps were placed at convenient places for study of the intended routes. There was much talk about a spur that would tie into a ferry to Baltimore, the men from that city insisting that trade be siphoned there rather than north to Philadelphia, and concessions were quickly agreed upon.
On the day prior to the meeting, Mr. Walgrave appeared, all blandness and confidential whispers. He assured each man that Daniel Webster was crossing the bay to see him personally, because the senator had such high regard for that man’s business judgment, and he spent the evening germinating enthusiasm for the arrival of the great man.
At breakfast he outlined, in his soft voice, what the procedure of the day must be, and at ten, when the boat came up the creek, he was at the wharf leading the cheering party. “Hip, hip, hooray!” he cried, encouraging the slaves waiting to catch the ropes to join in.
When the steamboat tied up, Mr. Walgrave was first aboard, and after deckhands had moved ashore with the luggage, he cried—whispering no longer—“Here comes Senator Webster!” And from the cabin stepped a burly man with a huge, balding head, piercing eyes and dark cavities below his cheekbones. His mouth turned down in a perpetual sneer, and like an emperor he strode to the gangway, descended to the wharf and moved forward briskly to shake hands with his host.
“My good friend Steed,” he cried to a man he had never before met, “how fine of you to meet our little boat.” He shook hands solemnly, passed along to each of the welcoming committee, stood for a moment enraptured by the prospect, and said in a deep rumbling voice that seemed to echo among the trees, “Gentlemen, I am eager to talk railroads.”
In the session before lunch he was overpowering, not because of his voice, which he kept low, and not because of his massive form, which he moved little, but solely because he was a man of compelling intellect. A planter from across the Choptank would start almost humbly to explain the advantages of having a railroad ...
“Mr. Stallworthy, you need not hesitate with me. I have no constituent in Massachusetts whose business does not profit because of the railroad. I believe that every American industry ...” His syllables rolled out magnificently, carrying with them a sense of conviction which heartened his listeners.
And he mastered data. If someone spoke of Baltimore’s vested interest in the Eastern Shore, Daniel Webster had the figures supporting this claim, and he became a more clever advocate than the Baltimorean. He was a businessman himself, ingrained in the processes of buying and selling. But in the session after the noonday meal he displayed the other aspect of his policy: “It is essential, I believe, that we construct every possible railroad line running north and south, for these are the sinews that will bind our nation together.”
When he began to expatiate upon the problems of the Union, he spoke like a god, and Steed reflected on the fact that he was so persuasive in his personal commitments, whereas Henry Clay had been so aloof and intellectual. “We need them both,” he muttered to himself as Webster forged ahead, brushing aside difficulties which Steed knew could not be so easily disposed of.
But he was at his greatest during the evening meal. Sitting at Susan’s right, he discoursed on his vision of a more powerful Union, stretching to all parts of the continent, provisioned by the southern states, supplied with manufactures by the northern, and provided with raw materials by the western. In the midst of his flowery oration he dropped his napkin, placed his two hands on the table and said in a resonant voice, “Gentlemen of the South, I am here to learn from you what it is you desire from that Union.”
Old Tiberius appeared to lead the ladies to their coffee, but Webster interrupted, “I believe the ladies should stay,” and he personally superintended the placement of Susan’s chair.
The discussion was far-ranging. He had not come, like Henry Clay, to listen, but rather to catch fleeting images of problems, which he would grasp, rephrase and make a permanent part of his arsenal. No slaveowner proposed any action but that Daniel Webster understood his dilemmas, sympathized with them and gave assurance that he woul
d do his best to alleviate them. When the probing question that Henry Clay had raised—What is to be done about the fugitive slave?—was brought up by Steed, Webster brushed it aside in four forceful words: “Return him, of course.” How, and under what circumstances and with what effect upon federal law-enforcing agencies did not concern him.
He retired early, quitting the room like a spent tornado, his massive head bowed as if overcome by the burdens of office. At the door he turned, smiled at Susan and looked every man in the eye. “Gentlemen, and beautiful ladies, tonight your railroad is much closer to Patamoke than it has ever been.”
When he was gone, leaving a conspicuous void, the party started to break up, but Mr. Walgrave signaled imperiously to Paul that Tiberius ought to lead the wives to their coffee. When the doors to the dining room were closed and cigars were lit, Mr. Walgrave from the head of the table said in his whispery voice, “Gentlemen, now we get down to business.”
“What do you have in mind?” a merchant from Patamoke asked.
“Senator Webster, gentlemen. That’s what I have in mind.” And he proceeded to make a speech which astounded everyone in the room except one of the men from Baltimore. Steed observed that this gentleman kept puffing on his cigar and looking disdainfully at the ceiling, and Paul got the impression that he had heard it all before:
“Gentlemen, let’s not mince words. You know and I know that Daniel Webster is the one man in the United States Senate who represents our interests. Now, don’t tell me that he’s a high-tariff man and therefore can’t represent the interests of you southerners. He alone has kept the tariff within reasonable limits. But more important, he has supported every good piece of business legislation that has come before Congress in the thirty-eight years he has been serving you.”
One guest pointed out that he had served Massachusetts, not Maryland, that indeed he had been an enemy of the principal laws that might have helped planters. Of such a claim Mr. Walgrave was contemptuous:
“Unworthy, sir, unworthy. Senator Webster may have had to vote, as a good New Englander, against one or another of your bills, but has he not consistently voted for the business interest? Are you each not better off because he has been your watchdog in the Senate, striking down those bills which served only to excite the rabble at the expense of the businessman?”
He went around the room, one man at a time, and proved that Webster had done his duty for he queried each man on particular mercantile bills which Webster had sponsored to aid that man’s business. Each had to confess that Daniel Webster had been the guardian of plantation owners as well as factory owners. Then he came to the point:
“So I am here tonight, gentlemen, to enlist your support for this man who has supported you so staunchly. I am about to collect pledges from you to enable Daniel Webster to pay off a few of his personal debts, so that he can continue in the Senate as your champion. I want each of you to ask yourself, ‘What has this great man’s effort in the Senate been worth to me?’ and I want you to contribute accordingly.”
One of the planters from north of Patamoke asked, “How much did you have in mind?” and without hesitating a second, Mr. Walgrave whispered, “Five hundred thousand dollars.” This evoked gasps, so he added quickly, “Gentlemen, as you know, Senator Webster lives expensively. He has farms, relatives. He entertains much in Boston and New York. And when you come to Washington, you’ll wine and dine with him. His expenses are large because his heart is large.”
Temporarily the meeting broke up into small groups, in which discussion was vigorous, and Mr. Walgrave made no attempt to interrupt this necessary process of opinion-formation, as he termed it; he had conducted numerous such meetings in all parts of the nation and had found that he never got really big pledges unless the local businessmen were given ample time for arguing among themselves. And it was big contributions he wanted.
“Are you asking us for the whole half million?” a planter asked.
“Heavens no!” Walgrave said. “Understanding supporters from all over the nation are making their contributions.”
“Isn’t such a collection forbidden by the Constitution?” a lawyer from Patamoke asked.
“It certainly is!” Mr. Walgrave agreed instantly. He had learned that this was the way to handle this difficult question, which always arose during these fund-gathering sessions.
“Then why are you asking us ...”
“My dear friend, if you contribute—well, let us say, two thousand dollars tonight and expect Senator Webster to vote yea or nay on some bill that interests you, that would be bribery, subornation of the Senate, and it would certainly be punishable at law. But Senator Webster does not, nor has he ever, engaged in bribery, or the sale of his vote. All I promise you tonight is that if you see fit to support this great man, and keep him in office ...”
“He has nobody running against him.”
“Thank God for that. No, he’s not up for reelection, and if he were, no one in Massachusetts could defeat him.”
“Then why does he need ...”
“Sir, he serves us all as Senator. He represents the entire nation. His living expenses ...”
“They must be pretty high, to need half a million.”
“They are,” Mr. Walgrave snapped, and then he dropped back to his whispery voice. “They are because he must work extra to protect men of property. Gentlemen, you support Daniel Webster or you throw your fortunes to the wolves.”
Now was the moment to whip these potential contributors into an orderly session. Speeding about the table, he placed before each man a carefully printed slip of paper on which to write the amount of money he was willing to contribute, and Webster had been so impressive, so comprehending of their problems, that each man but one signed a pledge. Paul Steed gave three thousand dollars.
“You haven’t signed,” Mr. Walgrave said to the man who had been staring at the ceiling.
“No,” the man responded. “I gave three years ago, in Pittsburgh ... remember?”
“No, I do not remember,” Mr. Walgrave said with a certain asperity.
“That night you were collecting from the iron and steel men ... four hundred thousand that time.”
Mr. Walgrave took note of the man. Under no circumstances would he ever be invited to another social evening with Daniel Webster.
For Eden Cater the 1840s were a time of perplexity. She was a freed woman with a good husband, two fine sons and a compassionate mistress who needed her. Miss Susan, with the aid of various devices built for her by Cudjo Cater, moved rather well about the mansion, and as she grew older, she grew more kind and understanding: “I’m English, you know. Our ladies are supposed to acquire a certain grace.” She spoke often of the Fithian women in London, and of the quaint ways in which they had supervised her childhood: “We had nannies, you know, and they always spoke French to us and slipped us novels to read. ‘So zat you will know how to make love ... when ze time comes.’ ”
She always added, as Eden listened to her monologues, “But then, of course, I’m half American, too. And American women who live on islands are supposed to acquire a certain courage.” On some days she even went out into the garden, where she would sit in her wheelchair and watch as the slaves edged the walks. She was a gentle mistress, and the slaves treated her indulgently: “Yes, ma’am. Yeeeessss, ma’am.” But they kept the garden pretty much as they wanted it, with the looming pyracantha reaching out for any passer-by and the tawny daylilies in place behind the iron rims in which their beds were now enclosed to prevent wandering.
Paul and Susan had added numerous hollies to the pattern, and these ingratiating trees, red in autumn, green in winter, gave the lawn a new touch. Indeed, Paul had perfected a holly which threw enormous clusters of bright red berries and was selling rooted plants to his neighbors under the name of Susan Fithian. Places all up and down the Choptank were burgeoning with Susan Fithians—“A hearty tree. They’ll stand any adversity.”
Eden was not really needed at the mansion
; two younger slaves had been trained to tend Miss Susan, but whenever she left for Patamoke to spend time with her family, she was missed. “She’s so understanding,” Miss Susan told the other girls. “Sometimes behaves as if this were her house, not mine.” Upon reflecting on this phenomenon, she added, “That’s understandable. She was born on this island. Started living in the mansion the same year I did.”
Eden was drawn to Patamoke not only because of her family, but also because she sensed that movements were afoot which must soon engulf her and Cudjo. She loved to sit on the bench before their cabin in the evening and exchange ideas with him, for she developed her understandings at the mansion, he at the boatyard.
Their conversation followed strange patterns, for she had learned gentleman’s English at Rosalind’s Revenge, while he had picked his up from the fields and Cline’s shed, intermixed with readings from Plutarch. Their pronunciation varied, too, with Eden speaking a soft, drawling tongue, while Cudjo’s was crisper and more barbarous. Each pronounced the repetitive short words—the, these, they, them, that, then, there—with the hard d sound, and they used other interesting variations and contractions, but the important fact was they conversed on a high level of interest and taught their sons to do the same.
Suppose that Cudjo wanted to say Why don’t they just wait? He has the time. It was likely to come out. Howc’m dey doan’ jes’ bide? He hab de time. It might be truncated, but it was neither illiterate nor humorous.
On one trip home, Eden told her husband, “When them great senators an’ whatnots comes to Revenge they talks about railroads for ten minutes an’ slavery for ten hours. Cudjo, they hopelessly confused.”
“What you think?”
“All the good white men, like Mr. Steed an’ this Clay an’ Webster, they wants to do the right thing. You can hear that in they voices. But they doan’ know nothin’, Cudjo. Fact is, I think they knows less than you an’ me.”
“The others?”
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