Of course, young men would have been attracted even if she never cracked a smile, for while she always wore dresses with high collars, modesty could not disguise the endowments that nature had bestowed upon her.
“As fine a pair of bubbies as ever I’ve seen,” Heywood had said to Douglass after Amelia made her first appearance that fall.
And Douglass had warned him that if he said anything so coarse about her again, it would be Heywood rather than Hannibal Wall who felt the power of Warren fists.
“So, you like her bubbies, too,” Heywood had responded.
“Mother,” said Douglass on the Sunday before the presidential election, “you’re not dressed. Are you not coming to Mrs. Bentley’s?”
Dorothy sat at her desk, which overlooked Tremont Street. A carriage clattered by on the cobblestones. Autumn colors were fading on the Common.
“I have a headache, dear,” said Dorothy.
“But you can still come to tea, can’t you? Everyone will be there.”
“Yes, dear.” Dorothy returned to her writing. “Including that girl?”
“You mean . . . Amelia?”
“On a first-name basis, then, are we?” said Dorothy.
“Well . . .” Douglass knew that his mother had been watching him more closely at Sunday gatherings, watching from behind a teacup as he gravitated to Amelia’s side.
“It isn’t surprising,” said Dorothy. “I suppose many boys know her by her first name. Uncle George says that Heywood speaks of her, too. She must be quite the thing.”
Douglass gave no answer to that. In the four years since his father’s death, he had tried never to argue with her, never to disappoint her, never to interrupt the uneasy calm with which she went through her days, because he knew that she had gone through many nights in an agony of grief, then despair, and at last a lonely acceptance.
She no longer cried every night, but Douglass had heard her crying more often as the time approached for him to leave for college. So he had restrained his excitement all summer, and he restrained his anger now. He left her at her writing desk, silhouetted in the bright sunlight, in a bubble of daytime serenity as transparent as it was fragile.
From childhood, he had chafed at her hovering presence. When he and other boys had engaged in rough games on the Common, he could always look toward his home and see his mother watching from the window, and always she would question him when he came in. Was he hurt? Who was the boy who jumped on him? Should she call on the boy’s mother and complain?
And always it would be his father who reminded her that it was in the nature of boys to test themselves against one another. And it was his father who explained to him that their first child had miscarried, their second had died in infancy, and so he should expect his mother to hold her third child close.
His mother no longer sought to protect him from roughhousing boys, he realized, but from members of the opposite sex who might spirit him away forever.
He stepped into the cool November air and went a few doors down Colonnade Row, nineteen joined facades of elegance—delicate wrought-iron balconies supported by solid Doric columns, high windows, fine westerly views. And the names on the doors bespoke the Brahmin aristocracy—Lawrence, Lowell, Wedge, and Abigail Pratt Bentley, another voice in the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society.
As proof of the premise that this was a very small world, the story was often told that Mrs. Bentley’s father, Horace Taylor Pratt, had been Caleb Wedge’s first amputation patient.
In the foyer, Douglass found Uncle George and Pratt’s grandson, Artemus, deep in conversation about the impact of the coming war on business.
Douglass liked Uncle George. The Long-Legged Napoleon, as his mother still called him, had served as a surrogate father for Douglass, always ready to offer advice, encouragement, and a sense of continuity as the boy moved into manhood.
“Ah, Douglass.” George smiled. “Heywood is upstairs in the dining room.”
That was what Douglass was afraid of. He took the stairs, two at a time, excusing himself as he went, greeting Mrs. Bentley as he brushed past her, spinning around the walnut banister into the upstairs hallway, and . . . there was Amelia, sitting in a shaft of sunlight by the floor-to-ceiling windows, an absolute vision.
But Heywood was sitting next to her, talking, and she seemed to be listening.
As Douglass approached, he could see it—in her carriage, in her bearing, in her smile, even in the way that her voice trilled when she said, “Why, Douglass”—she liked him. He knew that she liked him more than she liked his cousin.
Heywood made a quick gesture with his head and eyes—Get out of here, Douglass—but Douglass slid a chair across the carpet and sat on the other side of Amelia.
Heywood said, “There are some tasty sweetmeats on the far end of the table, Douglass.”
“But, Heywood,” said Amelia, “Douglass may have an opinion.”
“He’s a freshman. Freshmen do as they’re told, and if they have opinions, they don’t offer them.” Heywood’s words were for her, but his frown was for Douglass.
Douglass ignored him and said to Amelia, “Opinions on what?”
“Do you think the southern students will leave if Lincoln is elected?”
“I hope not. Then who would civilize them? And if they aren’t civilized, who will there be to talk their brethren out of leaving the Union?”
“Yes,” said Heywood, “and Douglass has enjoyed the southern students so much. . . . What is it they call you, Douglass? ‘Mama’s Boy’ or ‘Poof’?”
That, thought Douglass, was a low blow.
But Heywood’s remark had the opposite of its intended effect. Instead of diminishing Douglass in Amelia’s eyes, it brought her to his defense. She turned on Heywood. “What an awful thing to say about your own cousin.”
“B-b-b-ut,” Heywood stuttered, “I . . . I didn’t say it. The southerners said it.”
“Then you shouldn’t repeat it,” she said.
“Especially,” said Douglass, “to a member of the Female Anti-Slavery Society.”
“Indeed,” said Amelia. “Give me a man who makes southerners mad, rather than one who parrots their silly insults.”
“B-b-b-ut,” Heywood continued to stutter. “I’ve made them mad . . . many times. Haven’t I, Douglass?”
“If you have,” said Douglass, “they seem not to mind. They still let you run with them.”
Amelia stood and took Douglass by the arm. “Let us try Mrs. Bentley’s sweetmeats.” And they left Heywood sitting in the shaft of sunlight, fuming.
That night, a note was slipped under Douglass’s door. Dear Cousin: You may have won a battle, but the war for Amelia will be long.
But I will fight for her mind, thought Douglass, while you dream of her bubbies.
iii
A few nights later, Douglass Wedge Warren broke a rule. He smoked a cigar. Worse than that, he lit it in the room of another freshman, Robert Lincoln.
Then he hurried through the Yard to reach his dormitory before nine o’clock, when freshmen were supposed to be in their rooms. He expected that tutors would be vigilant that night. High emotions ran higher than usual, because Lincoln’s father had been elected president, with what consequences, no one knew.
The trees in the Yard were mostly bare. The leaves crunched underfoot. Gaslight, that wonder of the age, glowed from hall windows and lampposts. And Douglass heard footsteps behind him. He quickened his pace and puffed up his cigar for courage. Then he saw shadows moving from tree to tree on either side of him. And from behind, he heard, “That’s a violation, mister!”
It was not the voice of a tutor, so Douglass kept walking, but he clenched his fists.
“I said, ‘That’s a violation.’”
Douglass stopped and turned to face Hannibal Wall, whose cigar glowed orange in the gaslight. “So is that.”
Wall blew smoke. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m leavin’. So are a lot of the lads.”
A
nd several more students stepped out of the shadows.
Douglass noticed flasks flashing and cigars flaring, but he could make out no other faces. He said, “Are you there, Heywood?”
“I’m here . . . with my friends,” said a shadow. “We’re mourning for America, and for friendship between North and South.”
“And you’ve been in Bobby Lincoln’s room,” said Wall, “celebratin’ our sorrow.”
Douglass could see other figures moving here and there in the Yard. One of them might be a tutor. If he could keep talking, he might avoid a beating. So he said, “What’s coming will bring sorrow for us all.”
“What’s coming will bring sorrow for you tonight,” said Hannibal Wall, “because you still owe me a hat, and I still owe you a beating.”
Douglass looked around, as the shadows closed in on him, and he decided to run. But he was surrounded. So he turned and punched Wall right in the nose.
At the same moment, he was hit from three sides.
Not only tutors were abroad in the Yard that night. Assistant Librarian Theodore Wedge patrolled whenever he feared trouble. Unruly boys sometimes liked to break windows, and the long, Gothic fenestrations of Gore Hall made a most appealing target.
That night, he made his rounds in company with another librarian, his close friend and traveling companion, Samuel Bunting. Theodore wore a tall hat and carried a brass-headed walking stick. Mr. Bunting was known for his polished boots and his colorful handkerchiefs. And naturally, they were drawn toward the sound of a scuffle.
Theodore saw shadows, heard grunts and hollow thuds as boots struck ribs and fists struck faces. Then he heard the name of Douglass Warren growled out.
“Here now,” he said. “Stop this. Stop this at once.”
“Stay out of it,” said a shadow leaning against a tree.
“Heywood?”
“Stay out of it, Uncle.” The shadow sent a strong cloud of brandy into the air.
And one of the others said, “Quiet, you old poof.”
“Poof?” cried Theodore Wedge. “Poof, did you say?”
“Uncle, stay out of it,” said Heywood. “You’ll only make more trouble.”
Theodore pushed his way into the gang of students, raising his cane over his head. “Hannibal Wall, unhand Douglass Warren this instant!”
Now, Harvard Yard was not the exclusive domain of students, scholars, and educated men such as these. Cambridge folk passed as they wished, and at that moment, a young Irish laborer was walking by with his sweetheart. He was hoping to steal a kiss in the shadows, but it would not really be stealing, for Dan Callahan loved Alice O’Hara, and she loved him.
Dan also loved his mother, a college chambermaid. A story was told around the clubs of a student who once complained about her feather dusting. The complaint had earned Anne Callahan a week’s suspension. It had earned the student an anonymous Saturday-night thrashing in a Boston alley, at the end of which he was relieved of exactly $4.47, a chambermaid’s weekly salary.
Not only did Dan Callahan remember slights to his mother, however. He also remembered those of whom she spoke well. So, when he heard the name “Douglass Warren” roared out above that knot of Harvard scufflers, he stopped.
“Now, Dan,” said Alice, herself a chambermaid at the Fay House on Garden Street. “’Tis a fight amongst swells and none of yours.”
“No, darlin’.” Dan took off his derby and handed it to her. “’Tis a friend in trouble, even if he don’t know it.”
Dan was of average height, but he had the bulk of one whose lifework had been to carry bricks in a v-shaped receptacle mounted on a pole. He smoothed his mustache, then lowered his shoulder and, like a huge bowling ball, rolled straight into the scrum. Bodies and hats, cigars, flasks, and walking sticks went flying.
And that small, angry scene played like a prologue to the great conflict ahead.
When Assistant Professor Eliot and several tutors came running to put down the trouble and take as many names as they could, this much was certain:
Hannibal Wall had a bloody nose and another ruined hat.
Eliot told him to report the next day for disciplinary action.
“I need no discipline,” said Hannibal Wall. “I’m withdrawing from the college. So are most of the boys from the South. So keep your discipline.” And Wall stalked off.
Eliot then turned to Theodore Wedge and Mr. Bunting.
Theodore had blood on the head of his cane, a swelling under his eye, and a smile on his face. Samuel Bunting stood on the steps of University Hall, fanning himself with his red silk handkerchief, all but overcome by the excitement.
“You gentlemen should know better,” said Eliot.
“We’ve struck a blow for freedom, sir,” answered Theodore proudly. “Southern boys may withdraw from the college, but we shall not withdraw from the field.”
Eliot shook his head and looked around.
A young Irish hod carrier was helping Douglass to his feet.
Douglass said, “Thank you, Mr.—?”
“Callahan. Dan Callahan. I never forget a kindness, to myself or my mother.”
“Your mother?” Douglass could say no more, because Eliot was approaching.
“I’m told you were set upon,” said Eliot.
“Indeed he was,” said Dan Callahan. “Me and Alice seen it with our own eyes.”
Eliot did not even look at the Irishman or his lady friend. He kept focused on Douglass. “There are cigar butts on the ground. Were you smoking one?”
“Well, yes, sir.”
“That’s a violation. The nation may be falling apart, but Harvard isn’t. Report tomorrow for punishment.”
One scuffler nowhere to be seen was Heywood Wedge. He had gone into the fight and simply started swinging, in the hope that no one would know whose side he was on. At the approach of the tutors, however, he had slipped around to the back of University Hall and hidden in the outhouse, where he stayed on a cold seat, his breeches at his ankles, until Eliot had finished chiding Douglass and the voices had receded.
iv
In June, on commencement day, the descendants of Dr. Caleb Wedge came together at his old home on Brattle Street. They invited family and friends for a collation, but before the ceremonies, they met privately to discuss the family business.
It was not a large group that gathered in the spring of 1861. The descendants of Caleb Wedge had not been especially fertile. His grandchildren, George Jr. and Dorothy, had produced Heywood and Douglass, respectively. Theodore, for reasons that most had by then divined, would sire no children.
Though Theodore continued to live in the house and was, in effect, the host for the day, it was the eldest of the siblings, the Long-Legged Napoleon, who took the chair at their grandfather’s desk, opposite the portrait of Reverend Abraham, his Bible, and Great-Aunt Lydia, and delivered his annual invocation about aristocracy borne of good breeding, good learning, good faith, and hardheaded business sense.
He then described the impact of war on family investments: “The demand for uniforms will be of great benefit to textiles, and the need to move men and matériel will serve our railroad holdings.”
“Assuming,” said Heywood, “that the war lasts long enough.”
“There seems little doubt of that,” said Theodore.
“Then we can look forward to a positive balance sheet for 1861,” said Heywood.
Dorothy glared at him. “You are your father’s son. But I’d prefer not to talk about profits. We should be discussing ways to assuage the suffering of the troops.”
“No,” said Douglass.
And all heads turned. None could remember Douglass ever contradicting his mother in public, least of all his mother.
“No to what, Douglass,” she said, her calm seemingly unruffled.
“No to the assuagement of suffering. We must increase the suffering of the enemy, even if it means enduring the worst hardships ourselves.”
“Ourselves?” Dorothy folded her hands
on her lap. She had worked hard to control her fears since Fort Sumter. “I pray you speak figuratively.”
He looked straight at her and said, “I am my father’s son, too. Amos Warren died fighting for free soil in Kansas. I shall fight for free soil in America. I’ve enlisted.”
“Well done,” said Theodore.
“Damn fool,” said Heywood.
And Dorothy fainted dead away.
As the guests arrived after that most somber commencement, word passed that Douglass was to be commissioned second lieutenant in the Twentieth Massachusetts Infantry, already known as the Harvard Regiment, since so many of its officers had been at the college: Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.; J. J. Lowell; Will Putnam; Norwood Hallowell; Paul Revere; Samuel Bunting’s nephew Jason; the Pratt cousins, Artemus II and Francis—twenty-two Harvard officers in all, plus half a dozen medical personnel.
When Louis Agassiz heard the news at the punch bowl, he cried out, “Oh, no. Not another bright young man.”
Elizabeth Cary Agassiz told her husband to quiet himself.
“They are going into a meat grinder,” said Agassiz, shaking his great head. “We shall lose so many.”
As if to answer Agassiz, Amelia Fleming urged everyone in the parlor to join in a toast, “To a young hero.” Then, in front of everyone, she kissed Douglass on the cheek.
Dorothy thought that she would faint again.
Douglass turned crimson with embarrassment.
Heywood sat in a corner and turned a brighter crimson with anger.
A few days later, Heywood went to the State House and spoke with Henry Lee, chief recruiting officer in Massachusetts. He asked that Lee assign him to the Harvard Regiment. “For it is time to do my duty.”
Harvard Yard (Peter Fallon) Page 37