Charleston
Ham had been moved to a small room of his own. His apprenticeship was finished and he was preparing to take the bar. “I’ve come about a legal matter,” Alex told him. “I thought it best to discuss it here. After I leave, I would like you to give Maudie her freedom.”
“You know how difficult that’s become. The legislature—”
“Must approve it. I know. But we have friends. Judge Porcher, Mr. Petigru—surely they can help. We have money, if it’s necessary to bribe someone.”
Ham took off his gold-wire spectacles. He looked more like an anchorite every day. He stooped continually, even when he sat. “If that’s your earnest wish, I’ll get it done somehow.”
“Bless you.”
“Are you sure of your own mind, Alex? Do you really propose to work against the system that prevails here?”
“Yes. I’ve already written Angelina.”
“You want to be like the Grimkés—an old abolitionist hen? It isn’t a popular calling. Even in the North such women are roughly treated.”
“Any more roughly than Henry? I doubt it.”
“You loved him, didn’t you?”
“More than I’ll ever love any man.”
“I’ve heard time has a way of tempering that kind of certainty.”
“Not mine. I’ll confess something I’ve never said to another human being. I wanted to marry Henry.” Ham glanced at the open door, as though fearing listeners. “He wouldn’t hear of it. He knew the price I’d pay. I said I’d pay it gladly. He still refused. That’s how decent and considerate he was. I believe Gibbes had a hand in his death, at least instigated it, because I’d have nothing to do with him.”
“That’s a dangerous thought. I find nothing to admire about our cousin, but you know as well as I do that Simms Bell and his family are very well connected. Virtually untouchable.”
“I have no intention of trying to harm him.”
“Your solution is to leave.”
“Yes.”
“If you go, only a handful will ever welcome you back.”
“Those are the only ones I’ll miss.”
“This is your home. Can you really turn your back on it?”
“Mama asked the same question. Charleston’s become a cruel place. Underneath all the beauty there’s a darkness. God will punish this city someday.”
“Lord, you’re sounding like a Yankee already.” He sighed. “I will be so lonely without you. When will you go?”
“As soon as possible.”
Saying it, she suddenly felt unburdened; free.
46
Leave-Taking
Alex bought passage to Philadelphia on Atlantic Meteor of the Red Ball Line. The ship anchored in the harbor on the last day of September.
She scarcely slept that night. She was up at half past five, brewing coffee. Her trunk in the hall held her Bible, what few good clothes she owned, and Edward’s pistols wrapped in thick flannel. Her canvas banjo case leaned against the trunk.
She spent a half hour with Cassandra, saying good-bye. She hugged the house slaves one by one, gave them each ten dollars, then told Ham she was ready. They drove to Bell’s Bridge in the open carriage. Puddles and a pewter sky lingered from yesterday’s rain. Here and there gaps in the clouds opened, bleeding orange light for brief periods. Ham said little, concentrating on the heavy vehicle and foot traffic.
At Bell’s Bridge a barouche blocked the head of the pier. An elderly slave in an old brown suit and tall hat sat on the box, pensively examining his hands. Ouida’s stiffened skirt nearly filled the backseat. She wore a velvet day coat, bright green, with a wide linen collar and bow knots down the front. Tiny embroidered roses dotted her silk bonnet. Yellow kid gloves matched the roses. Compared to her cousin’s plumage Alex was a drab sparrow in her plainly cut white dress, Quaker mantle of gray silk, and black taffeta bonnet.
She felt sure Ouida hadn’t driven to the pier with any good intent. She did her best to think of a pleasantry while Ham reined the carriage alongside the much larger one.
“Good morning, Ouida,” Alex said. “May I offer congratulations to you and your husband? Dr. Hayward told mother the good news.”
“He had no right to do that. Childbearing is a private matter, only discussed inside the family, never in public.”
“My apologies, then. I only wanted to say I’m happy for you.” She wasn’t, really, and Ouida knew it. “Ham will need to write me when the baby’s born.”
“Whether he does or doesn’t is of no interest to me. I came here to deliver a parting message. Given your plan to join your Negro-worshiping friends who want to destroy our way of life, we no longer acknowledge a family connection.”
“If that’s your message, I don’t care to hear any more.”
“Oh, but I insist. Charleston is well rid of a person like you. I advise you not to show your face here again.”
“Ham, drive on.”
Upset by the exchange, he reacted slowly. Alex snatched the whip from its socket, laid it across the horse’s croup. The horse lunged, nearly throwing them both off the seat. The carriage careened down the pier. Dock workers scattered.
Ham drove his boot sole against the brake rod and leaned back to haul on the reins. The carriage rocked to a stop. He looked over his shoulder.
“They’ve gone. I’m sorry, sister. What Ouida said was unconscionable.”
“But not surprising. For a minute I expected her to spit in my face.” It was her turn to pat and comfort him. “Never mind. She only convinced me that I’m doing what’s right.”
Otto Abendschein unloaded her trunk. She carried the banjo case by the shoulder strap. Ham helped her down the steps to the waiting rowboat, nervously stepped in after her. Otto unshipped the oars; a Negro cast off the painter and Otto rowed them into a light chop, toward the anchored steamer.
The bearded captain welcomed her as she came up the gangway roped to the hull. A mate led her to a small cabin; Otto and Ham carried her trunk. Otto shook her hand, wished her well, and left.
She and Ham embraced. He went down the gangway and almost fell in the water trying to step in the bobbing rowboat. Alex watched until he and Otto reached Bell’s Bridge.
Atlantic Meteor raised her anchor chain an hour later. Paddlewheels revolving in the ornately painted boxes, the packet turned into the harbor channel. The captain had given his few passengers the run of the vessel. She walked to the bow, holding her bonnet so the wind wouldn’t snatch it.
The familiar skyline slipped away: the handsome Exchange; scaffolding on St. Philip’s, where workmen were rebuilding the steeple that had burned in another devastating fire last February. St. Michael’s bells rang the hour. She loved her native city, but what it stood for had turned that love to something very close to loathing.
The packet crossed the bar on the high tide. To starboard Fort Sumter’s uneven masonry walls raised the question of whether it would ever be finished. To port, on the gray-green ribbon of Sullivan’s Island, Fort Moultrie had filled with drifted sand. Two cows grazed inside, one standing on the parapet. Ahead, small white horses showed on the sea. To counter her feeling of loss Alex tried to envision life in the North. She was sailing into a better day, she must remember that.
Clouds opened above the eastern horizon. Misty amber sunshine streamed through, lighting patches of the ocean. She savored the salt wind. Yes, surely, there’d be a better and brighter day to banish any lingering regrets.
A better day…
“Oh,” she said softly. The anthem she’d vainly tried to write for so long filled her thoughts. Now she knew how its melody resolved. Now she knew its message.
47
1840
The Cincinnati coach carried Alex through white fields lying under dark December skies. She would never learn to like snow or the bitter Northern winters. In all her childhood she remembered only one overnight snowfall; it melted by noon the next day.
Alex hadn’t seen Charleston since the day she sailed away. L
etters from Ham kept her apprised of their mother’s condition. Although Cassandra’s health hadn’t worsened, neither had it improved. She lived, in Ham’s phrase, apart from the world. At Christmas, Alex and Ham and their mother would exchange gifts and greetings by mail, as usual.
Dayton’s broad unpaved streets were largely deserted when they arrived at half past four. It was Alex’s first trip to Ohio, but after three years of travel in the Northeast, new places were less daunting. She knew the kind of hostility she might face.
The coach bumped from Main Street onto First, then into a fenced yard where the driver handed down her carpetbag. Alex always kept her banjo case at her side. Other passengers greeted those meeting them. No one was waiting for her.
The winter dark induced a pang of loneliness. She longed for her comfortable rooms in Washington, where she’d settled after a year in Philadelphia. She supported herself by giving lessons in grammar, basic French, and piano. Her pupils were female, from prosperous homes; she never suggested they learn to play the banjo. She didn’t live luxuriously, but neither did she starve. When she traveled to speak for antislavery societies, her expenses were paid.
Although five years had passed since Henry’s death, she still mourned him. She discouraged those occasional young men who might have qualified as beaux. At twenty-five she considered herself a spinster. Rather surprisingly, her friend and mentor, Angelina Grimké, had married. Angelina’s husband, Theodore Dwight Weld, was a seminary graduate and the author of American Slavery as It Is, a widely read collection of graphic accounts of abuses under the system.
Two years ago Alex had met Weld in Boston. He introduced her to bald and bespectacled William Lloyd Garrison, editor and publisher of The Liberator. Garrison resembled a prim schoolmaster more than the fiery apostle of emancipation. Ham said Southerners thought him kin to the devil, and would hang him without a trial if he ever dared step into South Carolina. In the North, Alex had discovered to her sorrow, hatred of the abolitionists was nearly as virulent in some quarters.
Specks of snow whirled around her as she pulled her cloak tighter and retied her black bonnet. Bulky crinolines that stiffened a skirt were coming into fashion, but she still preferred a simple, straight dress of Quaker cut. Symbolism apart, it was more practical for travel.
She searched for some sign of her host. Wind rattled a broadsheet tacked to the board fence.
PROCLAIM LIBERTY!!
The Managers of the Dayton Auxiliary of THE AMERICAN ANTI-SLAVERY SOCIETY Invite, without Regard to Party or Sect, ANY & ALL Ready to Stand on LIBERTY’S SIDE in the GREAT STRUGGLE now upon us, to attend a Glorious
FREEDOM RALLY!
Thrill to the testimony of
- Fiery Immediatist -
The Rev. WM. DREW of Boston.
- Erudite Escaped SLAVE -
NICODEMUS BROWN.
- “Songstress of Freedom” -
Miss ALEXANDRA BELL of Charleston.
Listed last, Alex would be first to speak. She wasn’t upset by an obscene word defacing the bottom of the poster; she’d seen them in plenty.
A fat man in a tall hat rushed out of the dark, breathless. “Miss Bell? I am Cletus Westerham of the committee. I am so sorry to be late. My carriage horse went lame. Have you waited long?”
“Only a short time.”
“Your hotel’s just there, in the next block. Let’s see you settled, so you can rest a bit. The program’s at seven. Would you care for supper beforehand?”
“No, thank you,” she said as they crossed the frozen mud of the street. “Eating before a talk steals energy. Sarah Grimké taught me that.”
“The others on our committee will greet you at the hall. Of course we’re all eager to hear your message. Like the Grimkés you come from the very heart of the slave culture. I have but one request.”
“Yes?”
“In your remarks, would you be so kind as to avoid the, ah, woman question? We find it antagonizes many influential men who might otherwise support us with contributions.”
“Mr. Westerham, I appreciate the invitation to address your meeting, but I must speak what’s in my heart. How can we care about the freedom of Negroes and ignore the bondage of women?”
Westerham sighed. “Oh, dear. Well, as you must.”
Alex wasn’t angry; she heard the request frequently. Angelina and Sarah had introduced the issue of women’s rights into the movement on their initial tour of Massachusetts in 1837. Sarah had declared, “By speaking out, we are only assuming the rights and duties of all moral beings. The Lord opened the way for us to address mixed audiences.”
In Boston the sisters had been the first to appear before an all-male state legislature. Yet even there, where Paul Revere and Sam and John Adams had set the torch of liberty afire, the notion that universal emancipation should include women outraged conservatives, especially many of those in the clergy. Garrison, on the other hand, enthusiastically filled his weekly with praise of the idea.
Alex signed the registry at the Swaynie House, then asked Westerham, “Do you expect disturbances at the meeting?”
“I would be untruthful if I said no. Our work is not popular with large segments of the population. We’re only sixty miles from the Ohio River, and the Kentucky slave masters. I hope that doesn’t alarm you.”
“Oh, no,” she said, not entirely honestly.
The New Light Meeting House on Main Street south of Fourth was packed. Satin banners hung from the rafters depicted the Liberty Bell and exhorted the audience to PROCLAIM LIBERTY THROUGHOUT THE LAND.
Peeking from a holding room next to the stage, Alex decided the audience looked respectable, though at the back of the hall she noticed several rough-looking men. In the third row, on the aisle, a man wearing a shabby black suit glowered at the stage. The man’s pinched, liverish face gave her pause. She’d encountered fanatics before.
As always, she fretted about the coming performance. Was she suitably dressed? Was her banjo in tune? Her voice adequate? In the wings Westerham introduced her to committee members and the others on the program: Nicodemus Brown, a runaway from an Alabama cotton plantation, and Reverend William Drew, a thickset man of about thirty with a blunt jaw and abundant dark hair worn long. Reverend Drew had a deep, resonant voice and beautiful teeth he showed off to advantage whenever he smiled, which was often. He was shorter than Alex by several inches. She seldom met a man who wasn’t.
“Bell, Bell—that’s familiar,” he said as he shook her hand. “In Newport some years ago my late father met a gentleman from Charleston by that name.”
“If you’re referring to Edgar Bell, it could have been my father, also deceased. Our family vacationed in Newport.”
“Edgar Bell. I believe that’s it.” His smile charmed her. He didn’t have the lugubrious air of many clerics, nor did he wear black or fusty brown. His frock coat was forest green with black velvet lapels. Pale gray trousers matched his vest. His black tie, more scarf than cravat, was full and flowing, as Byronic as his hair.
“I remember the occasion because I met your father briefly,” he continued. “I was on holiday between college and my first year at seminary. My father enjoyed his conversation with Mr. Bell, although I understand they quarreled rather sharply at the end. Father was a Unitarian preacher, as am I. That is, I was until I stepped down from my pulpit last year. Here’s a thought. Perhaps we could take a little supper together after the program.” When Alex hesitated, he said, “Oh, have no fear, I’m a widower. My wife, Filomena, passed away three years ago.”
Alex offered her sympathies and was about to refuse the invitation when Westerham plucked her sleeve. “We are ready to begin.”
The other men on the committee took seats reserved on front benches. Westerham stepped onstage to applause and a few catcalls from the rear. William Drew leaned close, his breath redolent of clove. “Some roughnecks out there.”
“It doesn’t bother me. I’ve handled them before.”
“I thought you
looked like a stalwart,” Drew said, flashing that marvelous smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Westerham announced, “it is my honor and privilege to present our first speaker, the nationally famous composer and balladeer, Miss Alexandra Bell of Charleston, South Carolina.”
48
Freedom Song
Alex strode from the wings with her banjo. Her blond hair, worn to her waist, shimmered with reflections of the footlight lamps. Her height and her confident carriage gave her an air of authority. She bowed to acknowledge the applause, consciously wooing the audience with her eyes and her smile. From the back of the hall came the bleat of a tin horn.
“Friends of freedom,” she began, “your welcome warms me this wintry evening. I stand before you as a Southerner, exiled from the land of my birth by the sound of the lash and the piteous cry of the slave.” Alex spoke from memory. She’d written her speech before the first appearance she ever made, in a tiny hamlet in upstate New York. The speech had been changed and rearranged, added to and subtracted from, many times since.
“I stand before you as a repentant daughter of a family of slaveholders. I stand before you as a woman, and a moral being, feeling that I owe it to the suffering slave and the deluded master, the oppressed wife and the tyrannical husband”—the liverish man in the third row scowled—“to do all that I can to overturn a complicated system of crimes built on the prostrate bodies and broken hearts of my brothers and sisters of both races. But let me speak to you in a different way.”
The tin horn blared again. She ignored it and slipped the embroidered strap over her head. Her new, fretless banjo was a beautiful instrument of lustrous gun-stock maple, from the Baltimore workrooms of William Boucher. All five strings had tuning pegs, four at the top of the neck and the fifth lower down. On the solid back of the rim, in contrasting marquetry, the maker had inlaid a North Star of freedom.