Part IV

_TOWARD MORNING_

The seeds of the Declaration of Independence are slowly ripening.

--JOHN QUINCY ADAMS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed_

“When the Hebrews were emancipated they were told to take spoil from

the Egyptians. When the serfs of Russia were emancipated, they were

given three acres of ground upon which they could live and make a

living. But not so when our slaves were emancipated. They were sent

away empty-handed, without money, without friends, and without a foot

of land to stand upon. Old and young, sick and well were turned loose

to the open sky, naked to their enemies.”

Fifteen years later Douglass was to say this to a tense audience, their

large eyes, so bright that “freedom morning,” veiled again with pain.

If only Lincoln had been spared! How many times in the months and years

had they harked back to that towering figure and asked, “_Why?_”

* * * * *

It is true that Lincoln’s freeing of the slaves was a war measure, but

with the enactment of that measure the President steered the Ship of

State into uncharted waters. To whom could he turn for counsel? Not to

a Cabinet dolefully prophesying disaster; not to a Secretary of War who

had considered the occupation of Sumter by United States soldiers a

deadly insult to the Southern states; not to a General who vacillated,

delayed, quarreled and called his own men “a confused mob, entirely

demoralized.”

Lincoln sent for Frederick Douglass. It was proof of how far and how

fast he was traveling. He had no precedent. Everything the President

read or heard in his day treated all colored peoples as less than

human. He was born and nurtured in the church which said fervent

prayers of thanks that slavers “tore the savage from the wilds of

Africa and brought him to Christianity.” The unquestioned inferiority

of a black man was in the very air that Lincoln breathed. And yet he

turned to Douglass.

He did not receive the dark man in the office of the Executive Mansion,

but out on the back porch. There were times when the tinted walls,

drapes and heavy rugs of the imposing house stifled this “common man”

from the West. At such times he chose the porch, with its vista of

green.

“Sit down, Mr. Douglass,” he said, motioning to a wide, easy chair. “I

want to talk to you.”

Mainly he wished to confer that afternoon about the best means, outside

the Army, to induce slaves in the rebel states to come within Federal

lines.

“I fear that a peace might be forced upon me which would leave the

former slaves in a kind of bondage worse even than that they have

known.” Then he added, his voice heavy with disappointment, “They are

not coming to us as rapidly and in as large numbers as I had hoped.”

Douglass replied that probably many obstacles were being placed in

their path.

The President nodded his head. He was troubled in heart and mind. He

said he was being accused of protracting the war beyond its legitimate

object and of failing to make peace when he might have done so to

advantage. He saw the dangers of premature peace, but mainly he wanted

to prepare for what lay ahead when peace did come, early or late.

“Four millions suddenly added to the country’s population!” Lincoln

said earnestly. “What can we do, Douglass?” Before Douglass could

reply, the President leaned forward, his eyes intent. “I understand you

oppose every suggestion for colonization.”

“That is true, Mr. Lincoln. Colonization is not the answer.”

“Why?”

“These people are not Africans. They know nothing about

Africa--whatever roots they had have been destroyed. We were born here,

in America.”

The President sighed.

“I realize our responsibility, Douglass. We cannot set back the clock.

We brought your people here, we made them work for us. We owe them for

all these years of labor. But the fact remains that they are alien and

apart. Can they ever fit into the life of this country?”

Douglass spoke very gently.

“This is the only land we know, Mr. Lincoln. We have tilled its fields,

we have cleared its forests, we have built roads and bridges. This

is our home. We are alien and apart only because we have been forced

apart.” Then he began to tell the President of Negroes who had been

living and working in free states. He told of artisans and skilled

craftsmen, of bakers, shoemakers and clockmakers; he told about

schoolteachers, doctors, Negroes who, after being educated in Europe,

had chosen to return.

Mr. Lincoln listened with growing amazement. Perhaps he thought to

himself, _If only all of them were like this man Douglass!_ But being

the simple, honest soul he was, it is certain another thought came

after, _Few men are like this Douglass!_

They sat together through the long summer afternoon, and worked out a

plan. Other callers were turned away. “The President can see no one,”

they were told.

They decided that Douglass would organize a band of colored scouts who

would go into the South, beyond the Union Army lines, and bring the

slaves together as free workers.

“They will be paid something. I can’t say what.”

“They will come, sir!”

From time to time Douglass scribbled a note of instruction for the

President’s aides. Neither noticed the time. They were only concerned

in mapping out a clear course of action. At last the President leaned

back and the visitor gathered up his papers.

“From here,” Lincoln said, “we’ll move as we must. You will have to--”

His secretary came out on the porch. “Sir!” Lincoln nodded his head.

“A courier has just arrived. He brings a communication from General

Stephenson.”

Lincoln jerked himself erect.

“Show him out here!”

There was despair in the way the President pressed his hand against his

forehead.

“It is bad news,” he explained. “Otherwise they would have wired.”

“I’ll go, sir!” Douglass rose to his feet. Lincoln’s tall form lifted

itself. He looked out across the lawn without seeing it.

“Navy guns have been bombarding Fort Wagner for several days. We were

planning an attack. Surely--” He stopped as the two men came out on the

porch.

The courier was only a boy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform

was streaked and spattered. He swayed a little as he bowed and extended

a letter.

“General Stephenson sends his greetings, sir.”

Lincoln’s eyes were on the boy as his shaking fingers tore at the

envelope.

“Why do you not come from General Strong?”

“General Stephenson is now in command of the two brigades.” He stopped,

but the President’s eyes still questioned him and he added, “General

Strong and Colonel Putnam have been killed.”

Then Lincoln looked down at the single sprawled sheet. His lips began

to move, and some of his words were distinct enough for Douglass to

hear.

“On the night of July 18 we moved on Fort Wagner ... the Sixth

Connecticut, Forty-eighth Infantry New York, Third New Hampshire,

Seventy-sixth Pennsylvania, Ninth Maine....” He read on, then cried

out, “Douglass! Listen to this!”

“The honor of leading the charge was given to the Fifty-fourth

Massachusetts. I must report, sir, that these black soldiers advanced

without flinching and held their ground in the face of blasting fire

which mowed them down cruelly. Only a remnant of the thousand men can

be accounted for. Their commander, Colonel Robert Shaw, is missing. We

had counted on aid from the guns of the fleet--troops in the rear could

not--” The President stopped.

Douglass’ breath had escaped from his tense body in a groan. Now he

gasped.

“I must go--Forgive me. I must go to my wife!”

The President took a step toward him, understanding and concern in his

face. “You mean--?”

“Our sons--Lewis and Charles--in the Fifty-fourth.”

Lincoln laid his hand on Douglass’ arm, then spoke quickly to his

secretary.

“See that the courier has food and rest. Wire General Stephenson for

the list.”

Then he was walking to the door with Douglass, his arm through his.

“Extend to your wife my deepest sympathy. I commend you both to God,

who alone can give you strength. Keep me informed. You will hear from

me.”

The news of the defeat ran on ahead of him. Anna was standing in the

hall, waiting. He took her in his arms, and for a few moments neither

spoke. Then she said, “There is no word--yet.”

Days passed, and they told themselves that no news was good news.

Gradually names were made public. Horace Greeley hailed the

Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as the “black phalanx.” Newspapers

throughout the North said that the Negro soldier had “proven himself.”

Southern papers used different words to tell the story, but they

verified the fact that it was black bodies which filled the hastily dug

trenches all around Fort Wagner. They had come upon a white body which

was identified as the commander. It was said the order had been given

to “dump him among his niggers!”

Anna Douglass wrote a letter to Robert Shaw’s mother, who lived in

Boston.

“The struggle is now over for your brave son. Take comfort in the

thought that he died as he lived, that he lies with those who loved him

so devotedly.”

And still no word of Charles and Lewis.

Douglass did not tell Anna about a letter he had written to Abraham

Lincoln. But when the reply came, he showed her the enclosed note,

which read:

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

The bearer of this, Frederick Douglass, is known to us as a loyal,

free man, and is hence entitled to travel unmolested.

We trust he will be recognized everywhere as a free man and a

gentleman.

Respectfully,

A. LINCOLN, PRESIDENT

_I. K. Usha, Secretary_

August 10, 1863

Anna lifted her eyes in a question.

“I’m going to South Carolina.”

She pressed her hand against her shaking lips.

“They’ll kill you--too!” she said. He shook his head.

“Our troops are encamped on the islands in and about Charleston harbor.

The regiments are mixed up. There are so many wounded that I can be a

real help by straightening out the record. Many homes do not know.” And

he kissed her.

She watched him shave off his beard. She gave him a large box of food.

“I’ll find the boys!” His assurance cheered her.

He did find them--each on a different island--among the wounded.

Charles thought him simply another figment of his feverish dreams.

Lewis had been trying to get word out.

The news ran along the cots and out into the swamps:

“Frederick Douglass is here!”

Their cause was not lost.

* * * * *

There were times that fall when strong hearts quailed. Criticism

against Abraham Lincoln mounted. Finally it became clear that Lincoln

would not be re-elected by the politicians, the bankers, big business,

or the press. The campaign of 1864 was, therefore, waged in country

stores, at crossroads, from the backs of carts driving along city

streets, in public squares and on church steps.

The young Republican party now had to face a completely united

Democratic party which came forward with the story that the war was a

failure. They chose the dismissed General George B. McClellan as their

candidate and wrapped him in the ambiguous mist of an abused hero. But

they reckoned without the inspired tactics of his successor, Ulysses S.

Grant. The tide turned. “Lincoln’s man” was doing the job. Now Sherman

was “marching to the sea,” and the backbone of the Confederacy was

broken.

The people returned Abraham Lincoln to the White House.

With Lincoln safe, Douglass took the stump for the strengthening of the

Emancipation Proclamation. The next step was to pass the Thirteenth

Amendment, abolishing slavery by law.

In October, Douglass and John Langston called a National Convention of

Colored Men for a four-day session in Syracuse. People still could not

believe that the war would end in complete emancipation of all slaves.

Douglass called upon this convention of free artisans, craftsmen and

laborers in the free Northern states to take their place inside the

governmental framework.

“Events more mighty than men--eternal Providence, all-wide and

all-controlling,” he told them, “have placed us in new relations to

the government and the government to us. What that government is to

us today, and what it will be tomorrow, is made evident by a very few

facts. Look at them, colored men. Slavery in the District of Columbia

is abolished forever; slavery in all the territories of the United

States is abolished forever; the foreign slave trade, with its ten

thousand revolting abominations, is rendered impossible; slavery in

ten states of the Union is abolished forever; slavery in the five

remaining states is as certain to follow the same fate as the night

is to follow the day. The independence of Haiti is recognized; her

minister sits beside our “Prime Minister,” Mr. Seward, and dines at

his table in Washington, while colored men are excluded from the cars

in Philadelphia ... a black man’s complexion in Washington, in the

presence of the Federal government, is less offensive than in the

City of Brotherly Love. Citizenship is no longer denied us under this

government.”

The minutes of the convention were sent to President Lincoln. In

December Lincoln laid the Thirteenth Amendment before Congress, and

in January, 1865, slavery was forever abolished from any part of the

United States “or any place subject to their jurisdiction.”

Tirelessly, ceaselessly, Lincoln weighed every move he made. No

harsh words, no condemnation--he recognized human weakness. “_Our_

responsibility,” he said. Not the South’s alone, not merely the

slaveholder’s. He did not cant of “sins” and “virtues.”

He read the appeal addressed to Governor Shepley by the “free men of

color” in New Orleans, asking to be allowed to “register and vote.”

They reminded him of their defense of New Orleans against the British

under General Jackson, and declared their present loyalty to the Union.

In March he wrote the following letter to the newly elected Governor

Hahn:

EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON

March 13, 1864

_Honorable Michael Hahn_

MY DEAR SIR: In congratulating you on having fixed your name in

history as the first Free State Governor of Louisiana, now you are

about to have a convention which, among other things, will probably

define the elective franchise, I barely suggest, for your private

consideration, whether some of the colored people may not be let on,

as for instance, the very intelligent, and especially those who have

fought gallantly in our ranks. They would probably help in some trying

time in the future to keep the jewel of Liberty in the family of

freedom. But this is only suggestion, not to the public, but to you

alone.

Truly yours,

A. LINCOLN[20]

Long afterward Douglass wondered if it was some awful presentiment

that made his heart so heavy on the second Inauguration Day. Abraham

Lincoln’s voice lacked the resonance and liquid sweetness with which

men stirred vast audiences. He spoke slowly, carefully, as if each word

were a gift of himself to them--his last words to his people.

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the

right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the

work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who

shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to

do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among

ourselves and with all nations.”

A blackness engulfed Douglass for a time. He was unconscious of having

pushed forward. The ceremonies over, there was jostling and movement

all around him. Then over the heads of all the crowd, he saw President

Lincoln looking at him--he saw his face light up with a smile of

welcome. Douglass started toward him when he was stopped by something

else. Andrew Johnson, the Vice-President, stood beside Lincoln.

“Mr. Lincoln touched Mr. Johnson and pointed me out to him,” Douglass

wrote, describing the incident. “The first expression which came to his

face, and which I think was the true index of his heart, was one of

bitter contempt and aversion. Seeing that I observed him, he tried to

assume a more friendly appearance, but it was too late; it is useless

to close the door when all within has been seen. His first glance was

the frown of the man; the second was the bland and sickly smile of the

demagogue.”[21]

He turned aside, again engulfed in gloom. “Whatever Andrew Johnson may

be,” he thought, “he certainly is no friend of my race.”

The same evening in the spacious East Room, at such an affair as he had

never in his own country been privileged to attend before, he tried to

put aside his misgivings. He simply ignored the startled glances turned

in his direction. His card of admission was beyond question.

Even in this most brilliant of gatherings, Frederick Douglass was an

impressive figure. He was faultlessly groomed. His magnificent head

towered over any crowd, and he moved with poise and dignity. It is no

wonder that the President saw him standing in line among the others.

“Ah! Here comes my friend Douglass,” Lincoln said playfully.

Taking Douglass by the hand he said, “I saw you in the crowd today,

listening to my speech. Did you like it?”

Douglass smiled, a little embarrassed. He had no desire to hold up the

line.

“Mr. Lincoln, I mustn’t detain you with my opinions,” he almost

whispered. “There are a thousand people waiting to shake hands with

you.”

Lincoln was in an almost jovial mood that evening. He laughed softly.

“Nonsense,” he said, “stop a little, Douglass. There’s no man in the

country whose opinion I value more than yours. I really want to know

what you thought of it.”

Douglass tried to tell him. In the years to come he wished he had found

better words.

“Mr. Lincoln, your words today were sacred,” he said. “They will never

die.”

Lincoln seemed satisfied. His face lit up.

“I’m glad you liked it.”

Douglass rejoiced that Lincoln had his hour--an hour when he was bathed

in joyful tears of gratitude. It happened on a soft, spring day in

Richmond. General Weitzel had taken the city a few days before, with

the Twenty-ninth Connecticut Colored Regiment at his back. Now on this

April morning, the battered city was very still. White people who could

leave had fled. The others shut themselves inside, behind closed doors

and drawn shades. But lilacs were blooming in their yards.

It was a Negro soldier who saw the little rowboat pull up at the dock

and a tall gaunt man, leading a little boy, step out. He waved back the

sailors, who moved to follow him.

“We’ll go alone,” he said. Taking the little boy by the hand, he

started up the embankment to the street.

“Which way to our headquarters?” he asked the soldier. The soldier had

never seen Abraham Lincoln, but he recognized him. He saluted smartly.

“I’ll direct you, sir,” he offered. He was trembling. The President

smiled and shook his head.

“Just tell me.”

It was straight ahead up the street--Jefferson Davis’ mansion. He

couldn’t miss it. The soldier watched him go. He wanted to shout. He

wanted to run--to spread the news--but he could not leave his post.

No conquering hero he--just a tired man, walking down the street, his

deeply lined, sad face lifted to the few trees showing their spring

leaves. All around him lay the ravages of war. Suddenly a black boy

turned into the way and stared.

“Glory! Hit’s Mistah Lincoln!” he yelled.

And then they came from all the by-streets and the lanes. They came

shouting his name, flinging their hats into the air, waving their

hands. The empty streets thronged with black folks. They stretched

their hands and called out:

“Gawd bless yo’, Mistah Lincolm!”

“T’ank yo’ kin’ly, Mistah Lincolm!”

“T’ank yo’! Praise de Lawd!”

An old man dropped upon his knees and kissed his hand.

They saw the tears streaming down Lincoln’s face, and a hush fell over

those nearest him as he laid his hand upon the bowed white head, then

stooped and helped the old man to his feet.

“God bless you--God keep you all!” Lincoln could say no more at the

moment. They allowed him to move along his way, but by the time he had

reached his destination as far as he could see the streets were black.

They waited while he went inside--waiting, cheering, and singing at

intervals. When he came out he stood on the high steps and lifted

his hands for silence. Many of them dropped on their knees and all

listened, their faces turned to him as to the sun. He spoke simply,

sharing their joy. He accepted their devotion, but he said, “God has

made you free.” They knew he had come from God.

“Although you have been deprived of your God-given rights by your

so-called masters, you are now as free as I am; and if those that claim

to be your superiors do not know that you are free, take the sword and

bayonet and teach them that you are--for God created all men free,

giving to each the same rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of

happiness.”

He went away with their voices in his ears. A few days later came

Appomattox; and Lincoln, his face flushed, his eyes bright, his

strength renewed by secret wells of energy, covered his desk with plans

for reconstruction. Not a day to lose, not a moment. The wounds must be

healed, a better, stronger nation rise.

The President called his Cabinet together for April 14, then sent a

wire off to William Lloyd Garrison asking him to go to Fort Sumter for

the raising of the Stars and Stripes there. Garrison joyfully obeyed.

With him were Henry Ward Beecher and George Thompson, antislavery men

who could now rejoice.

The flag was raised, and singing filled the air; the waters were

covered with flowers, and the guns fired their triumphant salute. They

were on the steamer headed farther south when, at Beaufort, they were

handed a telegram.

Abraham Lincoln was dead!

“_I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring._”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_Moving forward_

The American Anti-Slavery Society disbanded and its agents were

withdrawn from the fields. The last number of the _Liberator_ came out.

“The object for which the _liberator_ was commenced thirty-five years

ago having been gloriously consummated--” wrote the white-haired

editor. He could now close his office. The slaves were free--his job

was finished. Garrison sailed for England and the Continent.

Frederick Douglass, dragging himself through the weeks, hardly heeded

what was being done. He caught some words of Wendell Phillips’

passionate plea: the Thirteenth Amendment had not yet become law;

even after ratification it had to be carried out. But he had taken no

part in the discussions. His occupation was gone and his salary--the

Anti-Slavery Society had paid him about five hundred dollars a

year--cut off. Lewis came home. Frederic was working with the

Freedman’s Bureau in Mississippi. Douglass made sporadic attempts to

think of how he would earn a living. The newspaper hung heavy on his

hands. An idea occurred to him. With the few thousand dollars Anna had

saved from the sales of his book, _My Bondage and My Freedom_, he had

best buy a farm, settle down and earn an honest living by tilling the

soil.

But nothing seemed of any real importance.

“John Brown and Abraham Lincoln!” He lay awake at night linking the two

names. Time seemed endless.

Yet it was only the latter part of June when President Johnson made

Benjamin F. Perry, former member of the Confederate legislature, the

Provisional Governor of South Carolina. Perry promptly put things back

the way they had been “before Lincoln.” He conferred suffrage upon all

citizens who had been legal voters prior to Secession. He called for an

election by these people of delegates to a Constitutional Convention to

be held in September. In his opening address as Provisional Governor,

the Honorable Mr. Perry stated his platform very clearly. “This is a

white man’s government, and intended for white men only.”

Horace Greeley reported the facts in the _Tribune_ together with a grim

editorial.

Douglass shook with rage. His anger was directed not at the Southern

Provisional Governor but at the man who now sat in Abraham Lincoln’s

place. For a moment his hate for Andrew Johnson consumed every rational

thought. Then his mind began to clear--to race, to leap forward. The

moment broke his lethargy.

“John Brown and Lincoln--yes!” He spoke aloud. “But I’m living. _I_ am

still here!” He struck the desk with his fist. “And by God we’ll fight!”

Then, seizing his pen, he swept aside the papers that had been

gathering dust, and on a clean white page he began to write.

“The liberties of the American people are dependent upon the

ballot-box, the jury box and the cartridge box.... Freedmen must have

the ballot if they would retain their freedom!”

His words sounded across the country. In many instances they filled

people, already worn out and war-weary, with dismay. The ballot was

such a vast advance beyond the former objects proclaimed by the friends

of the colored race that it struck men as preposterous and wholly

inadmissible. Antislavery men were far from united as to the wisdom of

Douglass’ stand. At first William Lloyd Garrison was not ready to join

in the idea, but he was soon found on the right side. As Douglass said

of him, “A man’s head will not long remain wrong, when his heart is

right.”

But if at first Garrison thought it was too much to ask, Wendell

Phillips saw not only the justice, but the wisdom and necessity, of the

measure.

“I shall never leave the Negro until, so far as God gives me the power,

I achieve [absolute equality before the law--absolute civil equality],”

he thundered from his pulpit.

Enfranchisement of the freedmen was resisted on two main grounds:

first, the tendency of the measure to bring the freedmen into conflict

with the old master-class and the white people of the South generally;

second, their unfitness, by reason of their ignorance, servility and

degradation, to exercise over the destinies of the nation so great a

power as the ballot.

“We’ve set them free! By Heaven, that’s enough! Let them go to work and

prove themselves!” So spake the North, anxious to get back to “business

as usual.”

But deep down in the land there was a mighty stirring. Words had been

said that could not be recalled--_henceforth, and forever free_.

There were no stories of killings, massacre or rape by the freed

blacks. Whitelaw Reid, touring the South, reported: “The Negroes

everywhere are quiet, respectful and peaceful; they are the only group

at work.” And the Alexandria _Gazette_ said “the Negroes generally

behave themselves respectfully toward the whites.”

At first there was much roaming about. Husbands set out to find

wives; and wives, idle, sat on the flat ground, believing they would

come. Mothers who had never set foot off the plantation, struck

out across the country to find their children; and children--like

dirty, scared, brown animals--swarmed aimlessly. There was sickness

and death. Freedman’s Aid Societies floundered around in a vacuum,

well-intentioned, doling out relief here and there; but what the black

man needed was a place where he could stand--a tiny, little part of the

great earth and a tool in his right hand.

William Freeland, master of Freelands, sat on his high-pillared

porch staring at the unkempt, tangled yard. Weeds and briers choking

everything--shrubbery, close-fisted, intricately branched, suffocating

the rambler. In the fields beyond, nothing was growing save long grass,

thistles and fierce suckers; and over the pond a scum had gathered,

frothing and buoyed with its own gases.

Though past sixty when the war began, William Freeland, ashamed that

Maryland was undecided, had gone to Richmond and volunteered. He had

cut a fine figure riding away on his horse--his well-tailored gray

uniform setting off the iron gray of his hair. The ladies of Richmond

had leaned from their windows, fluttering lace handkerchiefs. They

would not have recognized him when he came back to Freelands. His hair

was thinned and white, his uniform a tattered, filthy rag; the bony nag

he rode could scarcely make it to the old sycamore.

But the house still stood. It had not been pillaged or burned. His land

had not been plowed with cannon; it was not soaked with blood. Suddenly

the spring evening was cold, and he shuddered. Involuntarily his hand

reached toward the bell. Then it fell back. No one would answer. Old

Sue was in the kitchen, but she was too deaf to hear.

He would have to get some help on the place. The thought of paying

wages to the ungrateful blacks filled him with rage. The cause of all

the suffering and woe, they had turned on their masters, running after

Yankees. Some of them had even shot white men! Gall bit into his soul

as he remembered the strutting colored soldiers in Richmond.

The sound of a cart coming up the drive broke into his gloomy

meditation. The master frowned. A side road led around to the back.

Peddlers’ carts had no place on the drive. Then he remembered. This was

probably the man he was expecting--impudent upstart! His hand shook,

but he braced himself. He had promised to listen to him.

“He’s likely a damn Yankee, though he claims he’s from Georgia,”

Freeland’s friend, the Colonel, had said. “But he’s got a scheme for

getting the niggers back in their place. He says they’re dying like

flies on the roads, they’ll be glad to get back to work. Just bide your

time, old man, we’ll have all our niggers back. Where can they go?”

The master did not rise to greet his guest. He hated the sniveling oaf.

But before the cart went rumbling back along the drive the owner of

Freelands had parted with precious dollars.

Similar transactions were being carried on all over the South that

spring.

“Were the planters willing to bestow the same amount of money upon

the laborers as additional wages, as they pay to runners and waste in

dishonest means of compulsion, they would have drawn as many voluntary

and faithful laborers as they now obtain reluctant ones. But there

are harpies, who, most of them, were in the slave trade, and who

persuade planters to use them as brokers to supply the plantations

with hands, at the same time using all means to deceive the simple and

unsophisticated laborer.”[22]

But things were stirring in the land. Frederick Douglass in Rochester

sending out his paper--sending it South! The handsome, popular Francis

L. Cardoza, charming young Negro Presbyterian minister in New Haven,

Connecticut, resigning his Church and saying, “I’m going South!”

“What!” his parishioners exclaimed.

“Going to Charleston, _South_ Carolina.” And he grinned almost impishly

while they stared at him, wondering if they had heard right. Francis

Cardoza had been in school in Europe while the Anti-Slavery Societies

were lighting their fires. Having finished his work at the University

of Glasgow, he had accepted a call from New Haven. But now he heard

another call--more urgent. He packed up his books. He would need them

in South Carolina--land of his fathers.

Three colored refugees from Santo Domingo pooled their assets and

started a paper in New Orleans. They called it the _New Orleans

Tribune_, and published it as a daily during 1865. After that year

it continued as a weekly until sometime in 1869. It was published in

French and English, and copies were sent to members of Congress. Its

editor, Paul Trevigne, whose father had fought in the War of 1812,

wanted to bring Louisiana “under a truly democratic system of labor.”

He cited a new plan of credit for the people being tried in Europe.

“We, too, need credit for the laborers,” he wrote. “We cannot expect

complete and perfect freedom for the workingmen, as long as they remain

the tools of capital and are deprived of the legitimate product of the

sweat of their brow.”[23]

It was in September that a friend in South Carolina sent Douglass

a clipping from the _Columbia Daily Phoenix_, certainly _not_ an

Abolitionist sheet. It was dated September 23, 1865, and as Douglass

read his face lighted up with joy. Here was the right and proper

challenge to Provisional Governor Perry--a challenge from within his

own state! “A large meeting of freedmen, held on St. Helena Island on

the 4th instant” had adopted a set of resolutions--five clearly stated,

well-written paragraphs. Douglass reprinted the entire account in his

own paper, crediting its source. People read and could scarcely believe

what they read--coming as it did from the “ignorant, servile blacks” in

the lowlands.

1. _Resolved_, That we, the colored residents of St. Helena Island,

do most respectfully petition the Convention about to be assembled

at Columbia, on the 13th instant, to so alter and amend the present

Constitution of this state as to give the right of suffrage to every

man of twenty-one years, without other qualifications than that

required for the white citizens of the states.

2. _Resolved_, That, by the Declaration of Independence, we believe

these are rights which cannot justly be denied us, and we hope the

Convention will do us full justice by recognizing them.

3. _Resolved_, That we will never cease our efforts to obtain, by all

just and legal means, a full recognition of our rights as citizens of

the United States and this Commonwealth.

4. _Resolved_, That, having heretofore shown our devotion to the

Government, as well as our willingness to defend its Constitution and

laws, therefore we trust that the members of the Convention will see

the justice of allowing us a voice in the election of our rulers.

5. _Resolved_, That we believe the future peace and welfare of this

state depends very materially upon the protection of the interests

of the colored men and can only be secured by the adoption of the

sentiments embodied in the foregoing resolutions.

The week of the thirteenth came and went. Douglass scanned the papers

in vain for any mention of the petition or of anything concerning the

“new citizens” of South Carolina. In October came a letter from Francis

Cardoza, whom Douglass had met but did not know very well. He said, “I

wish to thank you for giving publicity to the petition sent in by our

people on St. Helena. Your co-operation strengthened their hearts. As

you know, as yet nothing has come of it, nor of the longer document

drawn up and presented by 103 Negroes assembled in Charleston. I have a

copy of the Charleston petition. Should you be in Washington any time

soon I’ll gladly meet you there with it. These men are neither to be

pitied nor scorned. They know that they are only at the beginning. With

the ballot they will become useful, responsible, functioning citizens

of the state. Without the ballot--sooner or later, there will be war.”

Douglass immediately got in touch with certain influential men. “I

propose,” he said, “that a committee go to Washington and lay the

matter of the freedmen’s enfranchisement squarely before President

Johnson.” His face darkened for a moment. “Perhaps I misjudge the man,”

he added. “He is faced with a gigantic task. It is our duty to give him

every assistance.”

They rallied round, and a delegation of colored people from Illinois,

Wisconsin, Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, South Carolina, North

Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, the New England

states and the District of Columbia was called together. George

Downing, of Rhode Island, and Frederick Douglass were named spokesmen.

A letter was dispatched to the White House requesting an interview with

the President.

After several weeks, the answer came. The President would receive the

delegation February 7. Douglass sent off a note to Cardoza saying when

he would be in Washington and suggesting the home of “my dear friend,

Mrs. Amelia Kemp” as the place of meeting.

An account of Johnson’s interview with the “Negro delegation” has gone

into the historical archives of Washington. It received nationwide

publicity both because of what was said and because of Frederick

Douglass’ gift for rebuttal.

“Until that interview,” Douglass wrote in his _Life and Times_, “the

country was not fully aware of the intentions and policy of President

Johnson on the subject of reconstruction, especially in respect of the

newly emancipated class of the South. After having heard the brief

addresses made to him by Mr. Downing and myself, he occupied at least

three-quarters of an hour in what seemed a set speech, and refused to

listen to any reply on our part, although solicited to grant a few

moments for that purpose. Seeing the advantage that Mr. Johnson would

have over us in getting his speech paraded before the country in the

morning papers, the members of the delegation met on the evening of

that day, and instructed me to prepare a brief reply, which should

go out to the country simultaneously with the President’s speech to

us. Since this reply indicates the points of difference between the

President and ourselves, I produce it here as a part of the history of

the times, it being concurred in by all the members of the delegation.”

1. The first point to which we feel especially bound to take

exception, is your attempt to found a policy opposed to our

enfranchisement, upon the alleged ground of an existing hostility on

the part of the former slaves toward the poor white people of the

South. We admit the existence of this hostility, and hold that it is

entirely reciprocal. But you obviously commit an error by drawing an

argument from an incident of slavery, and making it a basis for a

policy adapted to a state of freedom. The hostility between the whites

and blacks of the South is easily explained. It has its root and sap

in the relation of slavery, and was incited on both sides by the

cunning of the slave masters. Those masters secured their ascendancy

over both the poor whites and blacks by putting enmity between them.

They divided both to conquer each. There was no earthly reason why the

blacks should not hate and dread the poor whites when in a state of

slavery, for it was from this class that their masters received their

slave-catchers, slave-drivers, and overseers. They were the men called

in upon all occasions by the masters whenever any fiendish outrage

was to be committed upon the slave. Now, sir, you cannot but perceive

that, the cause of this hatred removed, the effect must be removed

also. Slavery is abolished.... You must see that it is altogether

illogical to legislate from slaveholding premises for a people whom

you have repeatedly declared it your purpose to maintain in freedom.

2. Besides, even if it were true, as you allege, that the hostility of

the blacks toward the poor whites must necessarily project itself into

a state of freedom, and that this enmity between the two races is even

more intense in a state of freedom than in a state of slavery, in the

name of heaven, we ask how can you, in view of your professed desire

to promote the welfare of the black man, deprive him of all means of

defense, and clothe him whom you regard as his enemy in the panoply

of political power? Can it be that you recommend a policy which would

arm the strong and cast down the defenseless?... Peace between races

is not to be secured by degrading one race and exalting another; by

giving power to one race and withholding it from another; but by

maintaining a state of equal justice between all classes.

3. On the colonization theory you were pleased to broach, very much

could be said. It is impossible to suppose, in view of the usefulness

of the black man in time of peace as a laborer in the South, and in

time of war as a soldier in the North ... that there can ever come a

time when he can be removed from this country without a terrible shock

to its prosperity and peace. Besides, the worst enemy of the nation

could not cast upon its fair name a greater infamy than to admit that

Negroes could be tolerated among them in a state of the most degrading

slavery and oppression, and must be cast away, driven into exile, for

no other cause than having been freed from their chains.[24]

The open letter written, one of the delegation hurried away with it to

the press. They had repaired to the home of John F. Cook, Washington

member of the delegation. He invited Douglass to remain for the night,

but Douglass explained that he had yet another appointment and that he

was expected at the home of an old friend. Douglass now stood up and,

shaking his shoulders, made ready to leave.

The weather outside was nasty. A wet, driving snow had turned the

streets into muddy slush; the wooden sidewalks were slippery and the

crossings were ditches of black water. Douglass fastened his boots

securely and turned up the collar of his coat.

“Can you find your way, Douglass?” asked Dr. Cook. “The streets are so

poorly lighted, and on a night like this a stranger could easily get

lost. If you’ll wait a little I’ll be glad to--”

Douglass interrupted. “No, indeed, Doctor. I know the way very well.

It’s not far.”

Meanwhile, “Miss Amelia” was finding Francis Cardoza good company. He

was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. The little lady’s eyes

twinkled, and her cheeks were flushed.

Tom’s widow was not as spry as she once was. Days and nights of nursing

in the Soldiers’ Home had brought weights heavier than years upon her

valiant frame. Now she was old. But she could take things easy. Jack

Haley was head of the house. The boarders could not be prevailed upon

to move, and the dark woman in the kitchen would have served just as

faithfully without wages. Frederick’s supper was being kept warm on

the back of the stove and his room was ready. She lifted the shade and

peered anxiously out into the dark night.

“I do hope he gets a cab. This is a bad night for him to be out on

these streets alone.” Her guest smiled.

“Frederick Douglass can take care of himself, madam,” he said. “You

should not worry about him.”

“Oh, but I _do_!” And Amelia’s blue eyes opened wide. Francis Cardoza,

his eyes on the white hands and pulsing, crinkled throat, marveled anew

at the children of God.

When Douglass came he was deeply apologetic, but they waved aside his

concern.

“It is nothing,” they said. “We knew you were busy.”

Amelia would not let them talk until he had eaten, and when he shook

his head, saying he could not keep Mr. Cardoza waiting any longer,

Cardoza laughed.

“Might as well give in, Mr. Douglass.”

So they all went to the dining room, and Amelia insisted that the young

man join her Frederick in his late supper.

Here in the friendly room, beside the roaring fire, the happenings of

the day no longer seemed so crushing. He told them everything, and they

listened, feeling his disappointment. Then Amelia spoke their thought

aloud.

“If only Mr. Lincoln had lived!”

She left them then after explaining to Douglass, “I invited Mr. Cardoza

to spend the night, but he has relatives here in Washington.”

They were both on their feet, bowing as she left. Amelia smiled and

thought, “Always such lovely manners.”

The two men settled down before the fire for serious talk. Francis

Cardoza was well informed. He might easily be taken for a white man,

and so had heard much not intended for his ears.

“I talked today with Thaddeus Stevens,” he told Douglass. “I told him

what I had seen of the black codes, and he told me of Senator Sumner’s

magnificent speech in the Senate two days ago. He swears they’ll get

the Civil Rights Bill through in spite of Johnson.”

“And I believe they will!” Douglass agreed. He leaned forward eagerly.

“You have brought the petition?”

“Yes, sir.” Cardoza was unfolding a manuscript. “Here is an exact

copy of the document presented by us to the Convention assembled at

Columbia. These words of the freedmen of South Carolina are our best

argument. Read!” He handed the sheets to Douglass.

It was a long document and Douglass read slowly. This then came from

“those savage blacks”!

... Our interests and affections are inseparably interwoven with the

welfare and prosperity of the state.... We assure your honorable body

that such recognition of our manhood as this petition asks for, is all

that is needed to convince the colored people of this state that the

white men of the state are prepared to do them justice.

Let us also assure your honorable body that nothing short of this,

our respectful demand, will satisfy our people. If our prayer is not

granted, there will doubtless be the same quiet and seemingly patient

submission to wrong that there has been in the past. The day for which

we watched and prayed came as we expected it; the day of our complete

enfranchisement will also come; and in that faith we will work and

wait.[25]

Douglass sat staring at the last sheet a long time. The simple majesty

of the words rendered him speechless. His voice was husky.

“I wish I could have read this to President Johnson today. No words of

mine can equal it.”

“President Johnson was already incensed by Senator Sumner’s words,”

Cardoza reminded him.

Douglass was silent for a moment. Then he spoke slowly.

“I want to be fair to President Johnson. In criticizing our friend

Charles Sumner he said, ‘I do not like to be arraigned by someone who

can get up handsomely-rounded periods and deal in rhetoric and talk

about abstract ideas of liberty, who never periled life, liberty, or

property.’” Douglass tapped the closely written sheets. “Well, here are

men who even now are imperiling life, liberty and property. Perhaps he

would have listened.”

“When he spoke to the Negroes of Nashville before his election, Johnson

expressed his eagerness to be another Moses who would lead the black

peoples from bondage to freedom.” Cardoza had been in Nashville a short

time before.

“Notice that even then he said he would do the leading.” There was

bitterness in Douglass’ voice. “Apparently he’s not willing for the

black man to stand up and walk to freedom on his two feet.”

Washington was emerging from the enveloping darkness when Francis

Cardoza took his leave.

As he walked through the silent, gray street past the Representatives

Office Building he saw a light faintly showing through one of the

windows. He murmured his thought aloud.

“We’re beating a nation out upon the anvil of time. The fires must be

kept hot!”

* * * * *

Inside the building a tired, thin man with deeply furrowed face pushed

back his chair and for a moment covered his eyes with his hand. Then

he glanced toward the window, and his mouth crooked into a smile. He’d

have to explain at home. Again he had stayed out all night. His desk

was covered with papers. He would go home now, drink some coffee. That

morning he proposed to demand the floor. He had something to say. He

paused a moment and re-read one scribbled paragraph:

“This is not a white man’s Government, in the exclusive sense in

which it is said. To say so is political blasphemy, for it violates

the fundamental principles of our gospel of liberty. This is Man’s

Government, the Government of all men alike; not that all men will have

equal power and sway within it. Accidental circumstances, natural and

acquired endowment and ability, will vary their fortunes. But equal

rights to all the privileges of the Government is innate in every

immortal being, no matter what the shape or color of the tabernacle

which it inhabits. Our fathers repudiated the whole doctrine of the

legal superiority of families or races, and proclaimed the equality of

men before the law. Upon that they created a revolution and built the

Republic.”[26]

Thaddeus Stevens arranged the papers in a neat pile, straightened his

wig and stood up. Then he took down his overcoat from the rack and put

it on. His feet echoed in the dim, empty corridor. A Negro attendant

in the lobby saw him coming. The dark face lit up with a smile and his

greeting sang like a tiny hymn.

“Good mawnin’, Mistah Stevens--_Good_ mawnin’ to you, sah!”

And Thaddeus Stevens did not feel the chill in the air as he walked

down the steps and out into the wet, gray dawn.

* * * * *

“The war is not over!” Douglass said grimly to his son Lewis. “The

battle is far from won. Not yet can I unfurl John Brown’s flag in a

land of the free!”

On the other hand, he knew the battle was not lost. But the

Abolitionists’ fundamental tenet of “moral persuasion” would have to

have a firm structure of legislation--or the house would come tumbling

down.

Stout girders for this structure were being lifted all over the land,

in the least expected places.

On January 1, 1867, the African Baptist Church of Richmond, Virginia,

was packed for an Emancipation Celebration. In the midst of the singing

and praying and shouting a young white man rose in the audience and,

going forward, asked if he might say a word.

“My name’s James Hunnicut and I’m from South Carolina,” he said. A

mother hushed her child with a sharp hiss. The dark faces were suddenly

cautious. The young man went on.

“This is a happy birthday for you--a day to be remembered with great

joy.” He waited until the fervent “Amens” and “Hallelujahs” had died

away. He took a step forward and his voice grew taut.

“But now each time you come together I urge you to look into the

future.”

Then in simple words that all could understand he talked to them

of what it meant to be a citizen. He explained the machinery of

government. He told them they must register and vote in the fall

elections. Some of the men grew tense. They had discussed plans. To

others it was new, and all leaned forward eagerly.

“When you are organized,” he said, “help to elect a loyal governor and

loyal congressmen. Do not vote for men who opposed your liberty--no

matter what they say now. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouths

shut. Educate yourselves--and go to the ballot boxes with your votes

tight in your hands!”

The young folks cheered him with a kind of madness. But some of the

older ones shook their heads.

A week after this happened, Frederick Douglass, on his way to

Chicago, found that he could stop off at Galesburg, Illinois, in time

for a local emancipation mass meeting. Galesburg was known as an

Abolitionists’ town. In the town’s old Dunn Hall they had hauled up the

biggest guns of the 1860 campaign. The county had gone almost solid

for Abraham Lincoln, though the Hall had given its greatest ovation to

one of the stoutest advocates of Stephen A. Douglas. The speaker had

been Robert Ingersoll, a young man from Peoria. Now seven years later,

when they planned to celebrate emancipation, the Negroes asked Robert

Ingersoll to deliver the main address. Douglass had been wanting to

hear Ingersoll for a year.

“On one of the frostiest and coldest nights I ever experienced,”

Douglass wrote, “I delivered a lecture in the town of Elmwood,

Illinois, twenty miles from Peoria. It was one of those bleak and

flinty nights, when prairie winds pierce like needles, and a step

on the snow sounds like a file on the steel teeth of a saw. My next

appointment after Elmwood was on Monday night, and in order to reach it

in time, it was necessary to go to Peoria the night previous, so as to

take an early morning train. I could only accomplish this by leaving

Elmwood after my lecture at midnight, for there was no Sunday train.

So a little before the hour at which my train was expected at Elmwood,

I started for the station with my friend Mr. Brown. On the way I said

to him, ‘I’m going to Peoria with something like a real dread of the

place. I expect to be compelled to walk the streets of that city all

night to keep from freezing.’ I told him that the last time I was there

I could obtain no shelter at any hotel and I knew no one in the city.

Mr. Brown was visibly affected by the statement and for some time was

silent. At last, as if suddenly discovering a way out of a painful

situation, he said, ‘I know a man in Peoria, should the hotels be

closed against you there, who would gladly open his doors to you--a man

who will receive you at any hour of the night, and in any weather, and

that man is Robert G. Ingersoll.’ ‘Why,’ said I, ‘it would not do to

disturb a family at such a time as I shall arrive there, on a night so

cold as this.’ ‘No matter about the hour,’ he said; ‘neither he nor his

family would be happy if they thought you were shelterless on such a

night. I know Mr. Ingersoll, and that he will be glad to welcome you at

midnight or at cockcrow.’ I became much interested by this description

of Mr. Ingersoll. Fortunately I had no occasion for disturbing him or

his family that night. I did find quarters for the night at the best

hotel in the city.”[27]

He had left Peoria the next morning. But his desire to meet the Peoria

lawyer had increased with the passing months--not the least because he

usually heard him referred to as “the infidel.”

The train was late pulling into Galesburg. Douglass took a cab at the

station and was driven directly to Dunn’s Hall. The place was jammed

with people, and the meeting well under way. Douglass saw that the

crowd was largely colored. That meant a lot of them had come a long

distance. Among so many strangers he hoped to get in without attracting

attention.

He succeeded, but it was because the attention of the throng was

riveted on the speaker who faced them on the platform far up front.

Only those persons whom he pushed against even saw the big man with the

upturned coat collar.

Douglass later described Robert G. Ingersoll as a man “with real living

human sunshine in his face.” It was this quality of dynamic light

about the man up front which made him stare on that January night. He

had come prepared to be impressed, but he was amazed at the almost

childlike freshness of the fair, smooth face with its wide-set eyes.

Ingersoll was of fine height and breadth, his mouth as gentle as a

woman’s, but, as Douglass began taking in what the man was saying, his

wonder grew.

“Slavery has destroyed every nation that has gone down to death. It

caused the last vestige of Grecian civilization to disappear forever,

and it caused Rome to fall with a crash that shook the world. After

the disappearance of slavery in its grossest forms in Europe, Gonzales

pointed out to his countrymen, the Portuguese, the immense profits that

they could make by stealing Africans, and thus commenced the modern

slave trade--that aggregation of all horror--infinite of all cruelty,

prosecuted only by demons, and defended only by fiends.

“And yet the slave trade has been defended and sustained by every

civilized nation, and by each and all has been baptized ‘legitimate

commerce’ in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

Douglass felt a chill descend his spine.

He told them that every great movement must be led by heroic,

self-sacrificing pioneers. Then his voice took on another quality.

“In Santo Domingo the pioneers were Oge and Chevannes; they headed

a revolt, they were unsuccessful, but they roused the slaves to

resistance. They were captured, tried, condemned and executed. They

were made to ask forgiveness of God and of the King, for having

attempted to give freedom to their own flesh and blood. They were

broken alive on the wheel and left to die of hunger and pain. The blood

of those martyrs became the seed of liberty; and afterward in the

midnight assault, in the massacre and pillage, the infuriated slaves

shouted their names as their battle cry, until Toussaint, the greatest

of the blacks, gave freedom to them all.”

He quoted Thomas Paine: _No man can be happy surrounded by those whose

happiness he has destroyed_. And Thomas Jefferson: _When the measure of

their tears shall be full--when their groans shall have involved heaven

itself in darkness--doubtless a God of justice will awaken to their

distress and, by diffusing light and liberality among the oppressors or

at length by his exterminating thunder, manifest his attention to the

things of this world and that they are not left to the guidance of a

blind fatality_.

He named Garrison, who was “for liberty as a principle and not from

mere necessity.”

A cheer went up from the crowd. Douglass’ heart was glad as he heard

it. Ingersoll then talked of Wendell Phillips, and of Charles Sumner,

who at that moment was battling for the freedmen in Congress. His voice

deepened, his great eyes became soft pools of light.

“But the real pioneer in America was old John Brown,” he said. There

was no cheer this time. They bowed their head and the golden voice was

like a prayer.

“He struck the sublimest blow of the age for freedom. It was said of

him that he stepped from the gallows to the throne of God. It was said

that he had made the scaffold to Liberty what Christ had made the cross

to Christianity.”

They wept softly. Douglass, his hands clenched, lost himself in

memories. When he heard the voice again it was ringing.

“In reconstructing the Southern states ... we prefer loyal blacks to

disloyal whites.... Today I am in favor of giving the Negro every right

that I claim for myself.

“We must be for freedom everywhere. Freedom is progress--slavery is

desolation and want; freedom invents, slavery forgets. Freedom believes

in education; the salvation of slavery is ignorance.

“The South has always dreaded the alphabet. They looked upon each

letter as an Abolitionist, and well they might.” There was laughter.

“If, in the future, the wheel of fortune should take a turn, and you

should in any country have white men in your power, I pray you not

to execute the villainy we have taught you.” The old Hall was still.

Ingersoll was drawing to a close. “... Stand for each other and above

all stand for liberty the world over--for all men.”[28]

Douglass slipped out. He heard the thunder of applause. It filled the

winter night as he hurried away. He walked for a long time down the

unfamiliar streets, the snow crunching under his feet, but he did not

feel the cold. His blood raced through his veins, his brain was on

fire, his heart sang.

He had seen a shining angel brandishing his sword.

He had also found a friend. He would clasp Ingersoll’s hand in his

maturity, as the young Douglass had clasped the hands of William Lloyd

Garrison and John Brown.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_Fourscore years ago in Washington_

“The future of the freedmen is linked with the destiny of Labor in

America. Negroes, thank God, are workers.”

New words being added to the song of freedom. In 1867, in the District

of Columbia, colored workers came together in a mass meeting. They

asked Congress to secure equal apportionment of employment to white and

colored labor. Their petition was printed, and a committee of fifteen

was appointed to circulate it. Similar meetings were held in Kentucky,

Indiana and in Pennsylvania.

A year and a half later, in January, 1869, they called a national

convention in Washington. Among the one hundred and thirty delegates

from all parts of the country came Henry M. Turner, black political

leader of Georgia. Resolutions were passed in favor of universal

suffrage, the opening of public lands in the South for Negroes,

the Freedman’s Bureau, a national tax for Negro schools, and the

reconstruction policy of Congress. They opposed any plan for

colonization.

Frederick Douglass was elected permanent president. Resolutions

were passed advocating industrious habits, the learning of trades

and professions, distribution of government lands, suffrage for

all--including women--and “free school systems, with no distinction on

account of race, color, sex or creed.”

The January convention, though not primarily a labor group, backed

industrial emancipation. Eleven months later a distinctly labor

convention met and stayed in session a full week at Union League Hall

in Washington.

In February, 1870, the Bureau of Labor ran an article on the need of

organized Negro labor. Shortly afterward, the Colored National Labor

Union came into being, with the _New Era_, a weekly paper, its national

organ. Frederick Douglass was asked to become editor-in-chief.

People wanted Douglass to go into politics. Rochester, with a

population of over sixty thousand white citizens and only about two

hundred colored, had sent him as delegate to a national political

convention in the fall of 1866. The National Loyalists’ Convention held

in Philadelphia was composed of delegates from the South, North and

West. Its object was to lay down the principles to be observed in the

reconstruction of society in the Southern states.

Though he had been sent by a “white vote,” all was not clear sailing

for Douglass. His troubles started on the delegates’ special train

headed for Philadelphia. At Harrisburg it was coupled to another

special from the southwest--and the train began to rock! After a

hurried consultation it was decided that the “Jonah” in their midst

had better be tossed overboard. The spokesman chosen to convey this

decision to the victim was a gentleman from New Orleans, of low voice

and charming manners. “I credit him with a high degree of politeness

and the gift of eloquence,” said Douglass.

He began by exhibiting his knowledge of Douglass’ history and of his

works, and said that he entertained toward him a very high respect.

He assured the delegate from Rochester that the gentlemen who sent

him, as well as those who accompanied him, regarded the Honorable Mr.

Douglass with admiration and that there was not among them the remotest

objection to sitting in convention with so distinguished a gentleman.

Then he paused, daintily wiping his hands on a spotless handkerchief.

Having tucked the linen back into his pocket, he spread his hands

expressively and leaned forward. Was it, he asked, not necessary to

set aside personal wishes for the common cause? Before Douglass could

answer, he shrugged his shoulders and went on. After all, it was purely

a question of party expediency. He must know that there was strong

and bitter prejudice against his race in the North as well as in the

South. They would raise the cry of social as well as political equality

against the Republicans, if the famous Douglass attended this loyal

national convention.

There were tears in the gentleman’s voice as he deplored the sacrifices

which one must make for the good of the Republican cause. But, he

pointed out, there were a couple of districts in the state of Indiana

so evenly balanced that a little thing was likely to turn the scale

against them, defeat their candidates, and thus leave Congress without

the necessary two-thirds vote for carrying through the so-badly needed

legislation.

“It is,” he ended, lifting his eyes piously, “only the good God who

gives us strength for such sacrifice.”

Douglass had listened attentively to this address, uttering no word

during its delivery. The spokesman leaned back in his seat. The three

delegates who had accompanied him and who had remained standing in the

aisle, turned to leave. They stopped in their tracks, however, at the

sound of Douglass’ voice. It was a resonant voice, with rich overtones,

and his words were heard distinctly by everyone in the car.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “with all due respect, you might as well ask me

to put a loaded pistol to my head and blow my brains out as to ask me

to keep out of this convention, to which I have been duly elected!”

The Louisianian’s face froze. One of the men in the aisle swore--none

too swiftly. Douglass reasoned with them.

“What, gentlemen, would you gain by this exclusion? Would not the

charge of cowardice, certain to be brought against you, prove more

damaging than that of amalgamation? Would you not be branded all over

the land as dastardly hypocrites, professing principles which you

have no wish or intention of carrying out? As a matter of policy or

expediency, you will be wise to let me in. Everybody knows that I have

been fairly elected by the city of Rochester as a delegate. The fact

has been broadly announced and commented upon all over the country.

If I am not admitted, the public will ask, ‘Where is Douglass? Why is

he not seen in the convention?’ And you would find that enquiry more

difficult to answer than any charge brought against you for favoring

political or social equality.” He paused. No one moved. Their faces

remained hard and unconvinced. Douglass sighed. Then his face also

hardened. He stood up.

“Well, ignoring the question of policy altogether, I am bound to go

into that convention. Not to do so would contradict the principle and

practice of my life.”

They left then. The charming gentleman from New Orleans did not bother

to bow.

No more was said about the matter. Frederick Douglass was not excluded,

but throughout the first morning session it was evident that he was to

be ignored.

That afternoon a procession had been planned to start from Independence

Hall. Flags and banners lined the way and crowds filled the streets.

Douglass reached the starting point in good time. “Almost everybody

on the ground whom I met seemed to be ashamed or afraid of me. I had

been warned that I should not be allowed to walk through the city in

the procession; fears had been expressed that my presence in it would

so shock the prejudices of the people of Philadelphia as to cause the

procession to be mobbed.”

The delegates were to walk two abreast. Douglass stood waiting, grimly

determined to march alone. But shortly before the signal to start

Theodore Tilton, young poet-editor of the _New York Independent_

and the _Brooklyn Worker_, came hurrying in his direction. His

straw-colored hair was rumpled and his face flushed.

“This way, Mr. Douglass! I’ve been looking for you.”

He grinned as he seized Douglass’ arm and with him pushed well up

toward the head of the procession. There they took a place in the line.

Tilton gayly ignored the sour faces around them.

“All set, captain, we’re ready to march!” he called.

Douglass tried to murmur something to express his appreciation, but the

writer winked at him.

“Watch and see what happens!” he chuckled.

The band struck up and the line began to move. Someone on the sidewalk

pointed to the sweeping mane of Douglass’ head and shouted, “Douglass!

There’s Frederick Douglass!”

They began to cheer. The cheering was heard by those farther down the

street, and heads craned forward. People leaned out of windows overhead

to see. They waved their flags and shouted, hailing the delegates of

the convention.

And Douglass was the most conspicuous figure in the line. The shout

most often heard all along the way was:

“Douglass! Douglass! There is Frederick Douglass!”

After that there was no further question of ignoring Douglass at the

convention. But any ambitions which he might have had for a political

career cooled. He realized that a thorough-going “politician” might

well have acceded to the delegates’ politely expressed wish “for the

good of the party,” but he knew that he would never place the good of

the party above the good of the people as a whole. After the adoption

of the Fourteenth and Fifteen Amendments, both white and colored people

urged him to move to one of the many districts of the South where

there was a large colored vote and get himself a seat in Congress. No

man in the country had a larger following. But the thought of going

to live among people simply to gain their votes was repugnant to his

self-respect. The idea did not square with his better judgment or sense

of propriety.

When he was called to Washington to edit the _New Era_ he began to turn

the thought over in his mind. The problem of what to do with himself

after the Anti-Slavery Society disbanded had been taken care of. He

was in demand as a lecturer in colleges, on lyceum circuits and before

literary societies. Where before he had considered himself well-off

with his four-hundred-fifty- to five-hundred-dollar-a-year salary, he

now received one hundred, one hundred fifty, or two hundred dollars

for a single lecture. His children were grown. Lewis was a successful

printer, Rosetta was married, and the youngest son was teaching school

on the Eastern Shore of Maryland not far from St. Michaels.

Douglass had campaigned for Ulysses S. Grant because he was fond of,

and believed in, Grant. There had been scarcely any contest. The people

were sick to death of the constant wrangling which had been going on

in Congress. President Johnson’s impeachment had fizzled like a bad

firecracker. The kindest thing they said about Johnson was that he was

weak. Everybody agreed that what was needed now was a strong hand. So

by an overwhelming majority they chose a war hero.

Undoubtedly, Washington would be interesting, reasoned Douglass. It was

the center of the hub, the Capital of all the States. He would also

be nearer the great masses of his own people. But Anna Douglass--for

the first time in thirty years neither overworked nor burdened with

cares--was reluctant to leave Rochester.

Douglass provided for his family, but making money had never been his

chief concern. Anna had always stretched dollars. The babies were all

little together, so Anna could not go out and work. But while they were

little, she often brought work home, sometimes without her husband’s

knowledge. During the years when runaway slaves hid in their attic,

Anna was always there at any hour of the day or night with food, clean

clothing, warm blankets; and it was Anna who kept her husband’s shirts

carefully laundered, his bag neatly packed. No one knew better than

Douglass how Anna carried the countless, minute burdens of the days and

nights. He loved her and depended upon her. But, like Anna Brown, she

was the wife of a man who belonged to history. So now, though she would

have preferred to relax under the big shade tree he had planted years

before, enjoy the cool spaciousness of the home which they had made

very comfortable, gossip a bit with her neighbors and relish the many

friendly contacts she had made in Rochester, she nodded her head.

“If Washington is the place for you, of course we’ll go.” And she

smiled at her husband, who was growing more handsome and more famous

every day.

Douglass was in his prime. He cut an imposing figure. He knew it and

was glad. For he regarded himself as ambassador of all the freedmen

in America. He was always on guard--his speech, his manners, his

appearance. Now that he could, he dressed meticulously, stopped off at

New York on his way to Washington and ordered several suits, saw to it

that he was well supplied with stiff white shirts. He intended that

when he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, across Lafayette Square, or

through the Capital grounds, men would ask, “Who is he? What embassy

is he from?” Sooner or later they would learn that he was “Frederick

Douglass, ex-slave!”

Yes, he was proud. And this same naïve pride almost tripped him.

Since the paper needed him at once, it was decided Douglass would go on

ahead, find a house, and later they would move their things and Anna

would follow him.

He plunged into his work and almost immediately into difficulties.

The _New Era_ was not his own paper. It was the national organ of the

Colored National Labor Union, and Douglass soon found he was not in

step with the union leaders. The only one he knew personally was George

Downing of Rhode Island. Even Downing seemed to have developed strange,

new ideas.

James H. Morris was an astute and courageous reconstruction leader of

North Carolina who saw politics and labor in clear alliance.

“What the South needs is a thorough reconstruction of its classes,” he

argued, “and that’s a long way from being a sharp division of white

and black.”

“With the ballot the Negro has full citizenship. He can make his way.”

Douglass did not grasp the significance of organized labor.

“The unions have been shutting out the black man’s labor all these

years.”

“White workers had to learn.”

It must be remembered that by adoption Douglass was New England and

Upper New York. Puritan individualism with all its good and bad

qualities had sunk deep. He had himself fought for Irish cottiers and

British labor, but could not at this time envision black and white

workers uniting against a common enemy in the United States.

After a series of what he called “bewildering circumstances,” he

purchased the paper and turned it over to Lewis and Frederic, his two

printer sons. After a few years they discontinued its publication. The

“misadventure” cost him from nine to ten thousand dollars.

Meanwhile, in another world--a world of international intrigue and

power politics that took little account of Frederick Douglass--events

were shaping themselves “according to plan.” United States

expansionists waited until President Grant took office and renewed

their efforts to strengthen our hand in the Caribbeans.

The islands of the Caribbean Sea were heavy with potential wealth.

Fortunes lay in the rich, black soil; cheap labor was there in the

poor, black peoples who had been brought from Africa to work the

islands. The key was Santo Domingo--the old Saint Domingue at which

Spain, France and Great Britain had clutched desperately.

Since Columbus first landed there December 6, 1492, the history of the

island had been written in blood. On one side had been born the second

republic in the Western Hemisphere, called Haiti. When U. S. Grant

became President of the United States, Haiti had stood for sixty-six

years--in spite of the fact that it was looked upon as an anomaly

among nations. On the other side of the island was the weaker Santo

Domingo. After declaring its independence in 1845, it had been annexed

by Spain while the Civil War was keeping the United States busy. When

this happened, the “Black Republic” of Haiti sought with more zeal

than power to take the place of the United States as defender against

aggression by a European power. Santo Domingo did manage to wrench

herself from Spain in 1865, but she was far from secure. The need for

military bases and coaling stations in the Caribbean was obvious to a

President skilled in military tactics. Admirals and generals of many

nations had looked with longing eyes on Haiti’s Môle St. Nicolas,

finest harbor in the Western world. But the Haitians were in a position

to hold their harbor, and meanwhile Santo Domingo’s Samoná Bay was not

bad. So President Grant offered the “protection” of the powerful United

States to a “weak and defenseless people, torn and rent by internal

feuds and unable to maintain order at home or command respect abroad.”

But the ever-watchful Charles Sumner rose in the Senate, and for six

hours his voice resounded through the chamber like the wrath of God.

He set off a series of repercussions against this annexation which

reverberated across the country.

Douglass, in the midst of his own perplexities, heard the echoes and

defended President Grant. Men working with him, particularly labor men,

stared at him in amazement.

“How can you, Douglass!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you see what this

means? And how can you side against Sumner? He’s the most courageous

friend the black man has in Congress!”

“I’m not against Charles Sumner. Our Senator sees this proposed

annexation as a measure to extinguish a colored nation and therefore

bitterly opposes it. But even a great and good man can be wrong.”

George Downing, his eyes on Douglass’ earnest, troubled face, thought

to himself, _How right you are!_

Charles Sumner, lying on a couch in the library of his big house facing

Lafayette Square, listened with closed eyes while Douglass gently

remonstrated. His strength was ebbing. Every one of these supreme

efforts drained him of life. Sumner was one of the few men of his day

who saw that the Union could yet lose the war. He had been very close

to Lincoln in the last days. He was trying to carry out the wishes of

his beloved Commander in Chief. He listened to Douglass, who he knew

also loved Lincoln, with a frown. He sat up impatiently, tossing aside

the light shawl with a snort.

“You’re caught up in a rosy cloud, Douglass. The lovely song of

emancipation still rings in your ears drowning all other sounds. You’re

due for a rude awakening.” His large eyes darkened. “And I’m afraid it

won’t be long in coming!”

It was several days later when Douglass, responding to an invitation

from the White House, felt a chill of apprehension. The President

greeted him with a blunt question.

“Now, what do you think of your friend, Sumner?” he asked bitterly.

“I think, Mr. President,” said Douglass, choosing his words carefully,

“that Senator Sumner is an honest and a valiant statesman. In opposing

the annexation of Santo Domingo he believes he is defending the cause

of the colored race as he has always done.” Douglass saw the slow flush

creeping above the President’s beard. He continued evenly. “But I also

think that in this he is mistaken.”

“You do?” There was surprise in the voice.

“Yes, sir, I do. I see no more dishonor to Santo Domingo in making her

a state of the American Union than in making Kansas, Nebraska, or any

other territory such a state. It is giving to a part the strength of

the whole.”

The President relaxed in his chair, a slight smile on his lips.

Douglass leaned forward.

“What do you, Mr. President, think of Senator Sumner?”

President Grant’s answer was concise.

“I think he’s mad!”

* * * * *

The Commission which President Grant sent to the Caribbean was one

of many. Secretary Seward himself had gone to Haiti in the winter of

1865. And in 1867 Seward had sent his son, then Assistant Secretary of

State. But the appointment of Frederick Douglass on Grant’s Commission

was a pretty gesture. A naval vessel manned by one hundred marines

and five hundred sailors, with the Stars and Stripes floating in the

breeze, steaming into Samoná Bay bringing Frederick Douglass and a

“confidential reconnaissance commission” of investigation! A reporter

from the _New York World_ went along, and much was made of Douglass’

“cordial relations” with the other members and of the fact that he was

given the seat of honor at the captain’s table. It was a delightful

cruise.

After thirty-six hours in port, they were ready to leave with the

report that the people were “unanimously” in favor of annexation by the

United States. Douglass heard nothing of the insurrection going on in

the hills, nor of the rival factions bidding for American support, nor

of the dollars from New York.

In spite of the commission, however, Horace Greeley and Charles Sumner

defeated the bill--a bitter disappointment to certain interests, but

far from a knockout blow.

* * * * *

The “old settlers” of Rochester tendered a farewell reception to

Frederick Douglass and his family when he took formal leave of the

city which had been his home for thirty years. All the old-time

Abolitionists who had weathered the long and bitter storm were invited.

Gerrit Smith, shrunken and feeble, was there. Joy and sadness sat down

together at that board. But everyone was proud of the dark man whom

Rochester now acclaimed as her “most distinguished son.”

Gideon Pitts’s father, old Captain Peter Pitts, had been the first

settler in the township of Richmond, so Gideon Pitts and his wife were

among the sponsors of the affair.

“Those were trying days even in our quiet valley,” Pitts’s eyes

twinkled. Douglass was trying to recall the grizzled face. “But we

licked ’em!”

It was the chuckle that brought it all back--the house offering

shelter from pursuers, his pounding on the door and the old man in his

nightshirt and bare feet!

“Mr. Pitts!” He seized his hand. “Of course, it’s Mr. Pitts!” He turned

to his wife, “My dear, these are the folks who took me in that night on

Ridge Road. You remember?”

“Of course, I remember.” Anna smiled. “I’ve always intended to ride out

some afternoon and thank you, but--” She made a little rueful gesture,

and she and Mrs. Pitts began to chat. They spoke of their children, and

Douglass remembered something else.

“You had a little girl--How is she?”

The father laughed proudly. “My little girl’s quite a young lady now.

She’s one that knows her own mind, too--belongs to Miss Anthony’s

voting society. She says that’s the next thing--votes for women!”

Douglass nodded his head. “She’s right. We’re hoping the _next_

amendment will make women citizens. Remember me to her, won’t you?”

“We sure will, Mr. Douglass!”

Then they were gone and Douglass said, “Good sound Americans,

Anna--people of the land.”

And Anna said a little wistfully, “We’ll miss them.” Deep in her heart,

Anna was afraid of Washington.

The house Douglass had taken at 316 A Street, N.E., was not ready, but

he wanted Anna close by to supervise repairs and redecorations. They

took Lewis with them, leaving Rosetta and her husband in the Rochester

home until everything was moved.

Douglass planned to send his twelve bound volumes of the _North Star_

and _Frederick Douglass’ Paper_, covering the period from 1848 to 1860,

to Harvard University Library. The curator had requested them for

Harvard’s historical files. But first he had to dash off to New Orleans

to preside over the Southern States Convention.

P. B. S. Pinchback, Lieutenant-Governor of Louisiana, had invited

Douglass to be his guest at the Governor’s Mansion. Indistinguishable

from a white man, Pinchback had been educated in the North and had

served as a captain in the Union Army. In appearance and actions he was

an educated, well-to-do, genial Louisianian--intelligent and capable,

but he was a practical politician and he played the politician’s game.

He might have left New Orleans, gone to France as so many of them did,

or even to some other section of the country. He might easily have

shrugged off the harness of the _cordon bleu_, but New Orleans was in

his blood. He lived always on the sharp edge, dangerously, while around

him swirled a colorful and kaleidoscopic drama. He was by no means a

charlatan.

It was April when Douglass came to New Orleans. He was greeted most

cordially. “I shall show you my New Orleans and you will not want to

leave,” Pinchback promised.

And Douglass was captivated by New Orleans--captivated and blinded.

Camellias were in bloom, their loveliness reflected in stagnant waters.

Soft, trailing beauty of mosses on damp walls in which stood high,

heavy gates. The streets were filled with multicolored throngs--whites

and blacks and all the colors in between, old women with piercing

bright eyes under flaming _tignons_, hawkers crying out their wares,

extending great trays piled high with figs, brown cakes and steaming

jars--the liquid French accents--the smells!

They stepped over the carcass of a dog, which had evidently been

floating in the street gutter for some time. “This is the old section,”

Pinchback explained. “When we cross Canal Street, you’ll think you’re

in New York.”

But there was nothing in New York like any part of New Orleans. The

celebrated visitor found himself in gardens where fountains played and

tiny, golden birds sipped honeysuckle, where flowering oleanders grew

in huge jars and lovely ladies with sparkling eyes trailed black lace.

Into the Governor’s courtyard, with its glistening flagstones, came men

for a talk with the great Douglass: Antoine Dubuclet, State Treasurer,

a quiet, dark man, who had lived many years in Paris; tall and cultured

P. G. Deslone, Secretary of State; Paul Trevigne, who published the

_New Orleans Tribune_.

Trevigne was not on the best of terms with the Lieutenant-Governor. He

bowed stiffly from the waist and hoped that the host would leave him

and Douglass alone together. But Pinchback ordered coffee served beside

the fountain, and over the thin, painted cup his eyes laughed.

“M. Trevigne does not approve of me,” he explained, turning to

Douglass. “He thinks I should take life more vigorously--by the throat.

I use other methods.”

Douglass, observing them, realized that here were two men of very

different caliber. He marveled anew that Pinchback had been able to

gain the confidence of the black people of New Orleans.

“Undoubtedly, sir,” Trevigne was saying frankly, “I understand better

the more direct methods of our first Lieutenant-Governor.” He turned

to Douglass. “His name was Oscar Dunn, and he was the only one of the

seven colored men in the Senate two years ago who had been a slave. He

was by far the most able.”

Pinchback had been in the Senate then. He studied the tray beside him

and finally chose a heart-shaped pastry. He did not look up, but he

said, “Oscar J. Dunn died--_very suddenly_.” His smile flashed. “I

prefer to live.”

Trevigne frowned. He continued almost as if the Governor had not spoken.

“Oscar Dunn was responsible for opening public schools to blacks and

poor whites alike.”

Douglass roused himself with a start. He looked at his watch.

“I’m sorry--but I’m going to be late. We must go. Let’s continue our

visit on the way.” Trevigne welcomed the interruption.

“I’ll send you over in the carriage. And do not worry,” Pinchback

lifted himself from the easy chair with languid grace. “The session

will not begin on time.”

But the session of the convention had begun when Douglass reached the

hall. The efficient secretary was calling the roll.

The convention was not going very well. Division in the Republican

ranks grew deeper and broader every day. Douglass blamed Charles Sumner

and Horace Greeley who “on account of their long and earnest advocacy

of justice and liberty to the blacks, had powerful attractions for the

newly-enfranchised class.” He ignored the persistent influence of the

National Labor Union and its economic struggle. Douglass pointed to

what the Republican party had done in Louisiana--to the legislators he

had met. Six years later he was to hear all of them labeled “apes,”

“buffoons,” and “clowns.” He was to see the schools Dunn had labored so

hard to erect burned to the ground; the painstaking, neat accounts of

Dubuclet blotted and falsified; the studied, skilful tacts of Pinchback

labeled “mongrel trickery.”

There were those in New Orleans who saw it coming.

“Warmoth,” they warned him, “is the real master of Louisiana. And

he represents capital, whose business it is to manipulate the labor

vote--white and black.”

“The Republican party is the true workingmen’s party of the country!”

thundered Douglass. And what he did was to steer the convention away

from unionism to politics--not seeing their interrelation.

And so, as white labor in the North moved toward stronger and stronger

union organization, it lost interest in, and vital touch with, the

millions of laborers in the South. When the black night came, there was

no help.

But all this was later. Douglass returned to Washington singing the

praises of Louisiana--its rich beauties and the amazing progress the

people were making. He congratulated himself that he had succeeded “in

holding back the convention from a fatal political blunder.” His story

was carried by the _New York Herald_--and pointedly omitted from the

columns of the _Tribune_.

He found a letter awaiting him from Harvard: when was he sending on his

newspaper files? There was some question of getting them catalogued

before summer. Yes, he must attend to that--soon. And he laid the

letter to one side.

On June 2, 1872, his house in Rochester burned to the ground. His

papers were gone, and Douglass cursed the folly of his procrastination.

Rosetta and her husband had managed to get out with a few personal

possessions. Household furniture could be replaced, but Anna wept for a

hundred precious mementos of the days gone by--little Annie’s cape, the

children’s school books, the plum-colored wedding dress and Frederick’s

first silk hat.

But Douglass thought only of his newspaper files and how he ought to

have sent them to Harvard.

The gods were not yet finished with Frederick Douglass. It was as if

they conspired to strip him of the last small vestige of his pride, as

if to make sure that henceforth and forevermore he should “walk humble.”

“It is not without a feeling of humiliation that I must narrate my

connection with the Freedmen’s Saving and Trust Company,” he wrote,

when, later on, he felt he had to put down the whole unfortunate story.

The pathetically naïve account which follows is amazing on many counts.

How could this little group of “church members” have expected to find

their way within the intricate maze of national banking in the United

States? From the start they were doomed to failure. Yet here stands an

eternal monument to the fact that the newly emancipated men and women

“put their money in banks,” were thrifty and frugal beyond our most

rigid demands. For these banks were in the South among the masses of

people who had just come out of slavery. The one Northern branch was in

Philadelphia. Frederick Douglass did not see the reasons for the bank’s

failure. He blamed himself and the handful of black men who tried to

scale the barricades of big business, only to have themselves broken

and left with a corpse on their hands.

This was an institution designed to furnish a place of security and

profit for the hard earnings of the colored people, especially in the

South. There was something missionary in its composition, and it dealt

largely in exhortations as well as promises. The men connected with

its management were generally church members, and reputed eminent for

their piety. Their aim was to instil into the minds of the untutored

Africans lessons of sobriety, wisdom, and economy, and to show them

how to rise in the world. Like snowflakes in winter, circulars, tracts

and other papers were, by this benevolent institution, scattered among

the millions, and they were told to “look” to the Freedmen’s Bank and

“live.” Branches were established in all the Southern States, and as a

result, money to the amount of millions flowed into its vaults.

With the usual effect of sudden wealth, the managers felt like making

a little display of their prosperity. They accordingly erected, on one

of the most desirable and expensive sites in the national capital, one

of the most costly and splendid buildings of the time, finished on the

inside with black walnut and furnished with marble counters and all

the modern improvements.... In passing it on the street I often peeped

into its spacious windows, and looked down the row of its gentlemanly

colored clerks, with their pens behind their ears, and felt my very

eyes enriched. It was a sight I had never expected to see....