But worst of all was the horror of wondering if my father had sold his very own son—my brother—to the slave auction.
“No . . .” I murmured. “It can’t be true. . . .”
“She’s coming around,” I heard Julia say. She was fanning my face with her handkerchief.
“Caroline, thank God! Are you all right?” Robert asked. I opened my eyes and gazed up at his worried face. Above us the tree branches flamed with fall colors.
“I’m okay,” I whispered. But I wanted to weep.
Robert held my hand in his. “Dear one, what happened? You’re trembling.”
“It . . . it was warm in there. I needed air. I guess I fainted.”
“I’ll hail a cab,” Rev. Greene said. “We’d better take Caroline home right away.”
No one said much on the ride home, but when Robert and Julia hurried into the house ahead of us, calling for my aunt, Rev. Greene turned to me. “Do you need to talk to someone about this, Miss Fletcher?” he asked softly. “I will gladly listen and keep whatever you say in strictest confidence.” I could tell by the pity in his eyes that he knew. Young Nathaniel Greene knew that it was the subject of the lecture that had upset me. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to lie to him. I needed to protect the people I loved—Tessie and Grady, and yes, even my daddy.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, smiling weakly. “I’ve fainted before . . . usually when I haven’t eaten, and I skipped lunch today. . . .”
Robert wanted to hover over me, but I sent him away and went to bed. I told Aunt Martha it was my time of the month. Julia knew it wasn’t. She heard me weeping that night in the dark, unable to stop. She crawled into bed beside me and stroked my hair, the way Tessie used to do.
“Please tell me what’s wrong, Caroline. It was something they said at the meeting, wasn’t it? I confess I wasn’t listening, I was watching Nathaniel. But won’t you please tell me?”
“I can’t. I can’t explain it.”
“Did talking about the South make you homesick?”
“Yes . . . I guess that’s what’s wrong.” I clung to the lie as an easy way out, and Julia accepted it without question. When I finally managed to stop crying, she quickly changed the subject, probably hoping to take my mind off of home.
“I noticed something today,” she said. “When you fainted, Robert nearly fainted, too. You should have seen his face, Carrie. He was so worried about you. And you probably don’t remember what he was saying to you.”
“No. I really don’t remember anything.”
“He’s in love with you.”
“No. Oh, Julia, no . . . that can’t be true.” I couldn’t handle any more revelations.
“He is. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it himself, but he is. Would you marry him if he asked you?”
“Julia, please . . . my head is throbbing.”
“If you did, then you would be Caroline Hoffman. And you could live here in Philadelphia forever, and when I marry Nathaniel we could visit each other. Maybe we could even live next door to each other.”
My fears about Grady were too much to handle. I didn’t think I could deal with Robert’s feelings, too. But it turned out I had to. Robert was waiting to see me in our parlor the first thing next morning.
“Caroline, I . . . I must speak with you. Alone.” I felt sorry for him. He was stammering, flushed, terrified. If he barely had the courage to face a woman, how in the world would he ever face an invading army? “Darling, I’ve been so worried about you. . . .”
“I’m fine now, Robert. Honest, I am. It was very silly of me to faint like that.”
He wasn’t listening. I could see that he’d prepared a little speech and he would forge ahead with it to the end, a soldier charging uphill into battle. “I realized the depth of my feelings for you yesterday, and I can’t go back to West Point tomorrow until I’ve talked to you about them. I can’t . . . I can’t bear the thought of you entertaining other suitors while I’m gone. This Rev. Greene—”
“I think you’ve misunderstood, Robert. I don’t have romantic feelings toward him or anyone else. Julia is interested in Nathaniel Greene, not me. I go places with them as a chaperone.”
“You’re so beautiful, Caroline. You could have any man in Philadelphia, but . . . but you once asked to dance only with me, remember? And at Rosalie’s wedding you let me monopolize all your time. Dare I hope that you share my feelings?”
Did I have feelings for him? Clumsy, boring Robert? He was well-meaning and pitifully sweet, my island of safety, my refuge. And after what I’d learned yesterday, I needed a safe place to hide more than ever before.
“Of course I’m fond of you, Robert.”
“Would you . . . could you consider . . . a-an understanding while I’m away?”
I frowned. “An understanding?”
“I know that we can’t make any formal announcements until I receive my army commission, but will you wait for me, darling?”
I saw a way out. I could stay in Philadelphia if I married Robert. I wouldn’t have to face my father. Or Tessie.
“I’ll think about it.”
“May I write to your father concerning my intentions?”
“If you wish,” I mumbled.
Robert lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you. Thank you, darling Caroline.”
It was only after he’d sailed for New York that I recalled Julia’s words and shuddered. If Robert was my husband I would have to share a bed with him, dressed in only my chemise.
On a cool autumn Sunday, midway through October, a subdued Nathaniel Greene stood in the pulpit of our church. “As you know,” he began, “I’ve been very outspoken about the need for all of us to join in the fight to abolish slavery. That need hasn’t changed. I still believe that God wants each one of us to decide what we should do to help. But a few months ago, a young woman asked me a simple question . . . and it has haunted me ever since. This morning I will ask all of you the same question: ‘Do you even know any Negroes?’ ”
Julia elbowed me in the ribs. “He’s talking about you, Caroline. You asked him that.” I held my fingers to my lips to shush her. I wanted to listen.
“The young woman wanted to know why—if we believe all men are created equal—why we segregate Negroes into separate neighborhoods? Separate schools? And, God forgive us, separate church pews? In this City of Brotherly Love, why aren’t these Christian brothers and sisters our schoolmates? Our neighbors? Our friends?”
Julia grabbed the back of my arm, unseen, and pinched. “You’re not going to steal him away from me! He’s mine!”
“Ow! I’m not interested in him, Julia.”
“Well, he certainly sounds interested in you.”
“Shh!” Aunt Martha’s frown was stern. I rubbed my arm and tried to slide away from Julia.
“We’ve outlawed slavery here in the North, thank God. But as my friend so keenly pointed out, the things that have replaced slavery aren’t any better. I’m talking about bigotry. And racism. Do you know any Negroes?”
As I glanced around at some of the faces in the congregation, I expected to see uneasiness, discomfort. But it surprised me to see anger. And opposition. Nathaniel must have seen them, too, but he courageously spoke his heart.
“The text for my sermon is found in the book of Isaiah, chapter fifty-eight. It says, ‘If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke . . . and if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day.’
“We’ve done away with the yoke of oppression here in Philadelphia. And many of you seated before me this morning have generously opened your purses and your wallets to support the cause of abolition. Why, then, does the shadow of bigotry and racism still darken our city?
“I believe it’s because we’ve spent our money and not ourselves. I believe it’s because we’ve served a cause and not the needs of the oppressed. Those needs inclu
de the need for fellowship, for friendship, for love.” He gripped the pulpit and leaned forward, staring fearlessly at his disgruntled congregation. “If we want the light of Christ to shine in our darkness, then we must remember one thing: Our Negro brothers and sisters are not a cause. They are people!”
The next day at breakfast, Uncle Philip opened his newspaper and read aloud to us the shocking events that had occurred the day before, on that beautiful autumn Sunday, October 16, 1859. “ ‘The following dispatch has been received from Frederick, Maryland, but as it seems very improbable, it should be received with great caution until confirmed. . . . An insurrection has broken out at Harper’s Ferry, Virginia. A band of armed abolitionists have full possession of the U.S. Arsenal. . . . The band is composed of about 250 whites, followed by a band of Negroes who are fighting with them. . . . The telegraph wires have been cut. . . . It is reported that there has been a general stampede of Negroes from Maryland. . . . Many wild rumors are afloat, but we have nothing authentic at this time. . . .’ ”
A chill went through me. My cousin Jonathan and the other plantation owners had always feared another slave insurrection like Nat Turner’s. But this time white abolitionists had led it. And now they had an arsenal full of weapons.
“Did you say Virginia, Daddy?” Julia asked.
“Yes. Harper’s Ferry, Virginia.”
She turned to me. “Is that close to where you used to live in Richmond?”
“I don’t know where it is,” I replied. My heart had begun to race as I did the arithmetic; my uncle and the overseer were the only white men left to defend the isolated plantation against more than fifty slaves.
The next day, the news was only slightly more reassuring. It wasn’t a widespread rebellion as people had feared, but a small band of five Negroes and thirteen white men, led by a fanatical abolitionist named John Brown. They had seized the federal armory, the arsenal, and the engine house in Harper’s Ferry, taking several hostages. The first man to be killed by Brown and his followers had been a free Negro; the first rebel to die had also been a Negro, a former slave who’d hoped to win freedom for his wife and children.
By Tuesday morning the insurrection was over. Ninety U.S. Marines, under the command of Colonel Robert E. Lee of Virginia, arrested Brown and the others and turned them over to the Virginia authorities to stand trial. I breathed a little easier knowing that all those weapons had been returned to the arsenal. But what continued to make me uneasy was the way the abolitionists praised John Brown for his courage and zeal. One newspaper called the incident “a great day in our history, a new revolution.” Brown himself was called “an angel of light.” I recalled what Rev. Greene had once told me about the abolition movement’s nonviolent principles, and I wondered what he had to say about these unsettling events. I never had a chance to ask him.
I came home from an afternoon tea on Friday to find my father waiting in the parlor for me. He had arrived in Philadelphia unannounced. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him.
“Daddy? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to bring you home, Caroline.” He opened his arms to me for a rare embrace, then rested his cheek against my hair. “I’ve missed you, Sugar. Two years is a long time.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Daddy.” I realized that it was true. I’d especially missed the sound of his voice, his gentle drawl. He looked so much better than he had when I’d left home, even though he’d lost weight and his hair had turned steely gray. But his gentle dignity and handsome face were unchanged.
“My, you’re beautiful,” he said, pulling back to gaze at me. “You look so much like your mother.” His love for me shone in his eyes, and I remembered the loving way he used to look at my mother, the tender way he’d treated her. I always knew that his love for her was very deep, which was why his grief after she’d died had been so profound.
As I looked into my daddy’s eyes I wondered how I ever could have believed that he’d been unfaithful to her. The idea seemed preposterous now. Daddy never paid any attention at all to Tessie. He and Grady looked nothing alike. It simply wasn’t true. I must have been out of my mind.
At dinner that night, Daddy told my aunt and uncle that he planned to take me home right away. Uncle Philip laid down his silverware and stared at Daddy.
“This seems a bit sudden, doesn’t it, George? Caroline has put down roots during the two years she’s spent with us. She’s flourished here. Do you really think it’s wise to uproot her so suddenly like this?”
“Please understand that I’m very grateful for all that you’ve done for her,” Daddy said, spreading his hands. “You’ve helped her—and me—through a very difficult time in our lives. But we’re both past that now. She’s my daughter. She belongs in her own home, in Richmond.”
“Is it safe to go back there?” Aunt Martha asked. “I mean, with all the awful goings-on at that place . . . Harper’s Ferry. . . ?”
Daddy frowned. “Of course it’s safe. That was the work of fanatical outsiders, not native Virginians. Living in peace with our Negroes is a long-established way of life for us—you know that, Martha. Take your sister’s servant, Ruby, for instance. You’re aware of the bond of loyalty and love that existed between her and my wife. Can you honestly imagine our Ruby taking part in such a rebellion? It’s the troublemakers from the North who threaten to upset that balance.”
“We are not all fanatics like John Brown,” Uncle Philip said, “any more than all slave owners are like Simon Legree.”
Their voices had been gradually growing louder, harsher. Daddy took a moment to stop and carefully cut his meat. When he looked up at Uncle Philip again, I heard cold anger in his tone. “I’ve read some of the headlines that appeared in your Northern newspapers after this incident. The entire South is horrified that you would express sympathy and praise for a fanatic who tried to cause a slave insurrection. How can any thinking man endorse such an outrage?”
“So, that’s why you’ve come for her, then.”
“Yes. I don’t want my only child influenced by that ungodly way of thinking. You’re calling that maniac Brown a hero!”
“I’ve never called him that, George.”
Daddy raised his hand in apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse any of you. But if even one person in the North defends that man, then it’s time Caroline came home.”
“Why not wait a bit and see what happens?” Aunt Martha said. “Maybe this will all blow over.”
Daddy leaned back in his chair and gravely shook his head. “To the people in the North, John Brown is a hero. To the South, he’s a murderous villain. Our differences are much too great, Martha. The dividing line between us is too clearly drawn. This won’t blow over.”
“You may be right,” Uncle Philip said quietly. “But there is something we’re all forgetting to consider—what would Caroline herself like to do?”
My uncle knew all about the anti-slavery meetings I’d been attending for the past year. He knew from the fervor of Rev. Greene’s sermons what attitudes I’d been exposed to at those meetings. He turned to me.
“What would you like to do, Caroline?”
If it hadn’t been for Nathaniel’s courageous sermon, I may have drawn back at the thought of facing the darkness of slavery again. But then I recalled the verse he’d read from Isaiah: “If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke . . . thy darkness will be as the noon day.” I was tired of simply listening to anti-slavery speeches, tired of merely supporting a cause. My own words came back to haunt me—Tessie and Eli were not a cause, they were people.
I looked up at my daddy and said, “I want to go home.”
Chapter Nine
Richmond 1859
As our train neared the city and all the familiar sights of Richmond came into view, I knew that I was home at last. Gilbert stood waiting to meet us at the station, greeting me with a rare smile.
“Welcome home, Missy Caroline.”
“Thank you, Gilber
t. It’s so good to be home.”
He loaded all my trunks and hatboxes and carpetbags into the carriage, then Daddy asked him to drive to Hollywood Cemetery to visit my mother’s grave.
The parklike graveyard was quiet and still. The crunch of gravel beneath the horses’ hooves and wagon wheels was the only sound as we drove downhill from the entrance. Gilbert threaded the carriage through the maze of winding roads, beneath ageless trees in their fading fall colors, past the jumble of tombs and monuments, as he must have done countless times.
The James River was visible from Mother’s grave site, with wooded Belle Isle floating serenely in the middle of it. As I stood silently gazing at her tombstone, I felt as though my mother had finally found the peace that had eluded her all her life.
“It’s nice here,” I said with a sigh.
Daddy nodded. Then he put his hat back on, and we drove away.
Hollywood Cemetery was west of downtown, our house on Church Hill east of it, so I was able to savor the sights as we drove up and down Richmond’s hills on the way home. The brick buildings of Tredegar Iron Works sprawled near the canal, smoke rising majestically from its tall chimneys. I saw Crenshaw Woolen Mills, the Franklin Paper Mill, and a half-dozen flour mills whose names I couldn’t recall. On the next hill, in front of the pillared capitol building, George Washington gazed southward from astride his bronze horse. Bells chimed the hour from nearby St. Paul’s. I could see the curving James River in the distance, sparkling in the sunlight, and mules like toy figures laboring to haul packet boats up the Kanawha Canal. We rode through the business district, past shops and banks, past the Spotswood Hotel, past newsboys hawking the latest editions. I begged Daddy to drive past his warehouses so I could see the ships docked at Rocketts Wharf.