Abolition

by Tim Black

  “Voting rights to males, Mr. Greene,” Bette Kromer said. “The 15th Amendment did nothing for black women or for any women,” she snipped. “In fact, the 14th Amendment is the only time in the Constitution where the word ‘male’ is used in place of ‘man’ or ‘men.’ It was the male patriarchy limiting women’s rights.”

  Mr. Greene winced. “That is correct, Bette. I can’t argue with you on the matter. You are right. But don’t blame me for the male chauvinism of the 19th century.”

  “Women’s brains were too little,” Victor said, sarcastically, repeating a stereotype of women that 19th century men often employed.

  His comment received a poke to his ribs from Minerva Messinger, who was sitting across from him.

  “Pig,” Bette Kromer said to Victor.

  “I was just kidding,” Victor whined.

  “It wasn’t funny,” Bette went on. “The men in the 19th century honestly thought women were second-class citizens. That feeling persists even today among too many men, Victor. I know you were teasing, but to me and my sisters here, it is hurtful.”

  Chagrined, Victor said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” Minerva said. “He’s learned his lesson, Bette,” she said. “He’s not a total ass,” she added. Then she gave Victor a quick look to make sure she hadn’t hurt his feelings too much. She could not stop liking Victor Bridges, she realized. Not now, Minerva, she told herself. Don’t turn into a stupid puddle of mush.

  Bette nodded agreement and Mr. Greene resumed speaking.

  “As I was saying, Frederick Douglass was a leading figure before and after the war. And while William Lloyd Garrison had been his mentor, the two drifted apart over the use of violence to obtain emancipation. Unlike Douglass, Garrison was open to the use of force to end slavery. Ironically, in the end, it would be the use of force exercised by black soldiers that had a great deal to do with emancipation. That and Abraham Lincoln’s political genius to get reluctant legislators in Congress to back the 13th Amendment. Mr. Tesla will take us to Rochester, New York, on July 5, 1852. We are going to hear Frederick Douglass deliver his speech, ‘The Meaning of the Fourth of July for the Negro.’...

  “You see, New York emancipated its slaves on July 4, 1827, but the annual celebration of freedom was held yearly on July 5th, so as not to interfere with Independence Day celebrations. By the 1850s, Frederick Douglass was a famous man and well-received orator who spent half the year touring the North and delivering speeches and lectures. Rochester was his home and the site of his newspaper. The venue in which we will listen to Mr. Douglass is a much grander place than the one in which Abraham Lincoln spoke in 1838. Rochester was a city, not a small western town like Springfield, Illinois. The site of his oration was Corinthian Hall, so named for the Corinthian columns that adorned the back of the stage. It had a seating capacity for several hundred people. Okay, Mr. Tesla, let’s head to Rochester, New York.”

  In a matter of moments, Nikola Tesla set the portable down in a vacant city lot, immediately applying its cloaking device. Through a classroom window in the distance the students could see what appeared to be a three-story building with a long flagpole sporting a giant flag flapping in the wind.

  “How many stars on the flag?” Mr. Greene asked. “Anyone know?”

  “Thirty,” Victor said assuredly.

  “Close,” the teacher replied. “Thirty-one actually. In 1851, California’s star was added to the flag even though it had entered the union in 1850.”

  As they walked along the sidewalk on Corinthian Street in Rochester, Mr. Greene, acting like a docent, said, “Corinthian Hall saw a number of famous speakers in the 1850s. Beside Mr. Douglass, there was Ralph Waldon Emerson, Mr. Garrison and women’s rights advocate Susan B. Anthony, who spent a lifetime trying to get women the right to vote. Corinthian Hall was the major public building in Rochester, since its completion in 1849.”

  In deference to his scientific friend, Professor Bridenbaugh stayed behind while the ghost of Nikola Tesla accompanied the group.

  As they walked into the enormous building, Minerva was struck by the antebellum women of New York, many of whom were dressed to the nines. Even though it was a warm summer evening, the white women of Rochester were well-dressed for the occasion. Evening gowns. Many of the men were in tuxedoes. The fancy dresses reminded Minerva of a senior prom. There was a smattering of African Americans as well, many also well-dressed, but the audience was overwhelmingly white. Still, Minerva even in her full-length dress felt like a street urchin next to the fine women of Rochester.

  There were no empty seats on the main floor. The main floor had rows of ascending seats on either side of the vast room, like a gymnasium seating arrangement. Folding chairs were placed in the space between the two ascending sides, facing the stage. Those seats were full. Ushers were directing people to the balconies, which overhung the floor and after climbing the stairs to the balcony Samuel found an empty row and lead the group to the unoccupied seats. Nikola Tesla, invisible to the people of Rochester, took a seat atop one of the Corinthian columns adorning the back of the stage. He whimsically waved back to Mr. Greene and the students, causing the kids to laugh.

  Even the hall balconies were beginning to fill up until every seat was taken. “Frederick Douglass really packs them in,” Samuel commented.

  “He sure does, Samuel,” Mr. Greene agreed. “By this time of his life he was one of the most sought-after speakers in the country. It was a steady source of income for him. He might speak as often as seventy times a year. There he is,” the teacher said pointing in the direction of the stage.

  On the stage, sitting on a chair perusing his notes, was an impeccably dressed black man in dark blue suit who appeared to be in his mid-thirties; his curly black hair had only begun to resemble what might be described as an afro hairstyle. Douglass, clean shaven and young, did not resemble the later photographs of the bearded great civil rights leader with the snow-white hair. But the eyes were still piercing. Minerva thought Frederick Douglass had the type of eyes that made him appear to be looking at one’s soul. A white man walked across the stage and to the podium. He announced in a voice that penetrated to the back of the hall, that the speaker for tonight was none other than Rochester resident Frederick Douglass, editor and publisher of The North Star.

  Frederick Douglass arose from his chair, curling his speech into a wand as he walked, Minerva thought. It seemed an apt description to her, because for some reason she expected Frederick Douglass to be a spellbinding speaker and perform some sort of magic with his speech. Certainly, his appearance was captivating to Minerva Messinger. He was a handsome man, she thought. With his penetrating eyes, she felt Frederick Douglass could see what was in a person’s heart.

  Mr. President, friends and fellow citizens. He who could address this audience without a quailing sensation, has stronger nerves than I have. I do not remember ever to have appeared as a speaker before any assembly more, nor with greater distress of my ability, than I do this day. A feeling has crept over me quite unfavorable to the exercise of my limited powers of speech…”

  Frederick Douglass was being self-effacing, Victor thought. He really didn’t doubt his own abilities at all, Victor realized; he was merely charming the audience by his self-effacement. As Frederick Douglass continued his oration, Victor found himself alternating between listening and daydreaming, wondering how impatient 21st century Americans were in comparison to Americans of the 19th century who could sit and listen to a speech for an hour. In the age of Twitter, Americans had lost their patience. But here was a former slave, self-taught, being extremely elegant. Douglass went on at length praising the American Revolution and the Founding Fathers of the nation, and Victor noticed the smiles in the convention hall, and he finished his summary of the past.

  I leave, therefore, the great deeds of your fathers to other gentlemen whose claim to have been regularly descended will be less likely to be disputed than mine. My business, if I have any here today, is with t
he present. The accepted time with God and His cause is ever-living now.

  Trust no future, however pleasant,

  Let the dead past bury its dead;

  Act, act in the living present.

  Heart within, and God overhead.

  He is talking about slavery, Victor realized. Frederick Douglass had set his audience up. What next?

  The great abolitionist paused and then continued.

  The evil that men do lives after them. The good is often interred with their bones.

  Again, Douglass paused as if to let the epigram sink in to the members of the audience.

  Fellow citizens,” Douglass went on with rhetorical flourish, “pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called up to speak here today? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in the Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring my humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?

  Oh snap, Victor thought, smiling. He is mocking the idea that “all men are created equal,” by suggesting that it is a dishonest phrase in the Declaration of Independence and certainly in the antebellum United States. And sadly, Victor thought, Frederick Douglass was right. Slavery made a mockery of the phrase “all men are created equal.” He remembered back to their visit to colonial Jamestown; three weeks after the House of Burgesses started representative government in the English colonies, the first slave ship appeared at the Jamestown dock. In the nearly two and one-half centuries since the founding of Jamestown, the nation had been, as Lincoln said, “a house divided against itself…. I believe this government cannot endure half-slave and half-free.”

  Douglass continued lecturing to the predominately white crowd.

  This Fourth of July is yours, not mine. You may rejoice, I must mourn.” He shook his head for emphasis. “Do you mean, citizens, to mock me, by asking me to speak today?

  Victor sensed an uneasiness in the crowd. Some people seemed visibly nervous by Douglass’ words. Others, however, were smiling. Some even applauded at a certain line, or two.

  What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants brass fronted impudence; your shout of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanks-giving’s, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloodier than are the people of the United States, at this very hour.”

  Victor watched as about half of the audience stood and applauded. Mr. Greene was on his feet. Samuel was cheering, as were the girls. Victor rose to his feet as well. The sheer elegance of Frederick Douglass’ elocution was mesmerizing. Here was a former slave who was more articulate than nearly all the white people in the audience. Myself included, Victor thought.

  And then Douglass launched into the hypocrisy of Christians who owned slaves.

  But the church of this country is not only indifferent to the wrongs to the slave, it actually takes sides with the oppressors. It has made itself the bulwark of American slavery, and the shield of American slave hunters. Many who stand as the very lights of the church, have shamelessly given the sanction of religion and the Bible to the whole slave system. They have taught that the relation of master and slave is ordained by God, that to send back an escaped bondsman to his master is clearly the duty of all the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ, and this horrible blasphemy is palmed off upon the world for Christianity.

  Victor thought Benjamin Lay would have loved the speech. And then Victor realized that Douglass was alluding to the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, a law that made it a crime to harbor runaway slaves. Douglass had purchased his own freedom from John Auld in 1846 after the publication of his autobiography, Samuel had told him. For $1250. Some white abolitionists had criticized Douglass for buying his freedom as they claimed it gave a legitimacy to slavery. It was easy for white abolitionists to criticize Frederick Douglass; they weren’t fugitive slaves subject to arrest and enslavement. Samuel thought it was a pragmatic move, a practical solution that allowed Douglass to travel and make money speaking, without the risk of being snatched off the street by a slave catcher. And, after the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, his decision turned out to be a wise move. For an outspoken runaway slave would have surely been a target for slave catchers. Victor could not get over the feeling that it was preposterous for a man to buy himself.

  Finally, Frederick Douglass reached the end of his oration:

  In the fervent aspirations of William Lloyd Garrison, I say, and let every heart join in saying it:

  God speed the year of jubilee

  The wide world over!

  When from their galling chains set free,

  The oppressed shall vilely bend the knee,

  And wear the yoke of tyranny

  Like brutes no more,

  That year will come, and freedom’s reign.

  To man his plundered rights again restore.

  God speed the day when human blood

  Shall cease to flow!

  That day will come all feuds to end,

  And change into a faithful friend each foe.

  As Frederick Douglass finished his speech the audience rose to its feet, save for a few who frowned and remain seated, although even most of them clapped politely if not resoundingly. On the stage, Frederick Douglass was taking a bow before leaving the platform by a side entrance.

  The white man who had introduced Frederick Douglass walked to the podium and announced, “Mr. Douglass will be happy to meet you. He should be in the lobby within a few minutes. His life story will also be available for purchase,” he added.

  As the audience began to shuffle out of the great hall, Mr. Greene mentioned that he would like to buy a first edition of Douglass’ biography and have the great abolitionist sign it. As the students, the teacher and the ghost of Nikola Tesla walked out of the hall into the wide lobby, Mr. Greene walked over to a table where three women were selling copies of Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave and a novel by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Life Among the Lowly. Victor Bridges tagged along with his teacher.

  “Jackpot, Victor,” Mr. Greene whispered. “First editions of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, published in March of 1852. He picked up a copy of the hardback book and checked an inside page. “John P. Jewett, the original publisher,” he remarked.

  “Why of course he is the original publisher,” an elderly woman at the table commented to Mr. Greene. “We only received our shipment of the book two weeks ago. People have been buying the paper for a dollar and the cloth for a dollar and a half, but they are hesitant to purchase the cloth with extra gilt for two dollars.”

  “I see.” Mr. Greene turned his head and whispered to Victor. “The cloth with extra guilt are incredibly rare collector’s items.” Then he turned to the woman and said, “I have heard so much about it, so many women were talking about it when it was serialized. I would like six copies of Mrs. Stowe’s book and one of Mr. Douglass’.” He produced a double eagle gold piece and put the twenty-dollar coin on the table. The woman calculated the price of the seven books.

  “That is one dollar for each Uncle Tom’s Cabin and a dollar-twenty for Mr. Douglass’ narrative. Seven dollars, twenty cents. Mr. Douglass signed his books.”

  “No ma’am,” the teacher smiled. “I would like six copies of the cloth with extra guilt.”

  “Oh my!” th
e woman said in surprise. “Well that will be twelve dollars for the novel and one twenty for the narrative. Thirteen-twenty total.”

  How appropriate, Victor thought, the runaway slave’s book cost 3/5 of the white woman’s book. It wasn’t extra gilt, he thought, it was extra “guilt.” He was proud of his own pun.

  The woman placed the books in the paper bag. “Keep the change,” the teacher said. “Donate it to Mr. Douglass’ speaking fee.

  “Yes, sir. I hope you and your son enjoyed the speech,” the lady smiled.

  Before Victor could correct the old woman as to his parentage, Mr. Greene said, “We did indeed, ma’am. Mr. Douglass is a very compelling speaker.”

  “Yes, he is,” she agreed and then said, “Who’s next?”

  Samuel and the three girls were in line waiting to meet the speaker. Victor and Mr. Greene joined them. Douglass was smiling and shaking hands and engaging with small talk with the whites who came through the line. But his smile seemed to grow as he met a fellow African American as the blacks came through the line as well. He seemed more at home with his own race, Victor thought.

  Heather was the first of the group to meet the famous abolitionist. She bowed her head politely and offered her hand, but he just nodded and smiled at her. He repeated the gestures for Bette and Minerva, but he offered Samuel his hand and his eyes sparkled as they appraised the size of the young black man before him.

  “I can tell by the smoothness of your hand that you were never a field hand, my son. Were you a house slave?”

  Samuel wanted to tell him so much. He wanted to say that he was from the future and that in his time all blacks were freemen and one even had been elected President of the United States, but Samuel assumed if he said such things to Frederick Douglass he would surely be judged insane by the people of 1852. He only managed to say, “No, Mr. Douglass, I was born free.”