And again he returned to his basic theme that it was the existence of slavery that enabled black men and women to be free:
So what we find is that the black woman of the South is more free to pursue her true interests of motherhood and family care than the so-called free woman at the north who works in some mill under conditions that prevent her from enjoying life. True freedom is found in a disciplined society in which each participant has a place and knows what that place is.
He saw himself as the 1847 inheritor of Pericles of Athens, and Marcus Aurelius of Rome, and George Washington of Virginia, and he endeavored to hold himself to the austere standards set by those men. “Their freedom to move in the world,” he often said, “was based upon the existence of slaves who performed the lower categories of work.” But he was not insensitive to the nagging question of the abolitionists: “Must the slave live his entire life without hope?” He addressed himself to this matter toward the end of Letter XX:
You will remember, Noel, the fine slave girl Eden who attended you when last you visited us. She was in all ways a superior person, and the loving care she lavished on Susan after our accident was the principal reason my wife survived. We set Eden free, and paid her a salary which she could accumulate for the purchase of her husband, that fine Xanga mechanic you commented upon at the forge. They now reside in our village of Patamoke, where the husband has built a good business as carpenter and general fixer. Eden, it may interest you to know, voluntarily offered to continue her work at Devon and nurse Miss Susan, who under her care can now walk with a proficiency you would not believe. I venture to suggest that both Eden and her husband are happier here in Maryland than they could possibly have been in Africa.
In fact, Paul Steed convinced himself that he protected the freedom of all men, especially the freedom of the slaves under his control. “I serve as their master for their own good,” he reasoned, and he was so forceful in propagating this theory that everyone along the Choptank came to believe that “our slaves are happier under our benevolent care than they would be if they were set free.” Everyone believed this, that is, except the slaves themselves and workingmen like George Paxmore.
Paul Steed had long been aware that he must one day have trouble with the Paxmores over the question of slavery, and in late 1847 he was visited by Thomas Cater, the postmaster at Patamoke. Mr. Cater sailed down to Devon, wearing his dark suit and a darker frown, to place before Mr. Steed evidence that the Quakers at Peace Cuff were receiving seditious mail. “I wouldn’t have believed it, sir, had I not seen it with my own eyes,” and he threw on the desk a heavy envelope that had been sent from the North with a copy of the New York Tribune, a provocative journal dedicated to stirring up trouble.
“There it is,” Mr. Cater said gingerly.
Steed would not touch it, for Maryland law explicitly forbade the circulation of any material “calculated to stir discontent among our colored,” and men had been sent to jail for ten years for the offense. At first the law had applied only to inflammatory rags like The Liberator, but now it covered even reasonable papers that questioned in any way the morality and economics of slavery.
“What shall I do with it?” Mr. Cater asked.
“The law says you’re to burn it.”
“Each time it arrives?”
“You have no obligation to encourage black uprisings.”
Mr. Cater, not wanting to take the offending journal back to Patamoke, asked Mr. Steed if he could have a match, and when this was provided he went onto the lawn, knelt down and set the newspaper afire. When only black ashes remained he returned to the house. “I’ll take note of everything they receive and keep you informed.”
Steed’s concern over Paxmore’s possible treason was put aside when word reached Devon that Senator Clay had at last found a date on which he could cross the bay to discuss the proposed railroad. Extraordinary preparations were made for his comfort, for he was an old man now and travel would be difficult; he was not really a senator any longer, but he retained the title and had such power that if he approved an Eastern Shore railroad, his former colleagues in the Senate would probably support it. So the big guest bedroom in the west wing was readied with flowers; slaves were drilled in how to attend the famous Kentuckian; invitations were dispatched to important citizens in the area; and Susan Steed wheeled her chair into distant parts of the mansion, attending to those small details which accounted for the social distinction of the Steeds.
It was midafternoon when the sloop arrived with the senator, and when he stepped ashore, a tall, thin, distinguished man of seventy-one, with handsome flowing hair and wide, expressive mouth, he brought a dignity which bespoke his years of service to the nation. Characteristically, he paused at the wharf, surveyed the plantation, making a quick assessment of its management, and started up the graveled path, his step firm and even eager.
“You keep a fine establishment,” he said approvingly to Paul, who had to hurry on his shortened leg to keep up. “I miss my farm in Kentucky—the animals especially. I like good husbandry. It marks a good mind.”
When he approached the mansion, old Tiberius stepped forth in his blue uniform and white gloves, bowing from the waist. “Yo’ is welcome to Rosalind’s Revenge,”
“What revenge did she take?” Clay asked, stopping on the porch to study the plantation from this perspective.
“Several,” Paul explained. “She hanged the pirate Henri Bonfleur.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Clay said, admiring the manner in which the garden led down to the creek.
“And it was her ship captured Blackbeard. Cut his head off, you know. She was a terror.”
“And did she build this beautiful house?”
“She did.”
“Used the Flemish bond, I see.” Nothing escaped this great man’s eye. When he saw Susan Steed approaching him in her wheelchair he became all grace, and hurried forward to assist her as she projected herself upward. “How excellent of you to invite me to your shore,” he said, not grandly but with the intense warmth of a Kentucky farmer who liked to see well-stocked plantations.
“We’ve invited some of our leaders to meet with you,” Steed said. “Their boats will be arriving.”
“That pleases me.”
“Would you like to repair the damages of the trip?” Steed asked.
“No. I travel well. But I would like to hear your statement of the matters which bring me here,” and he made his way instinctively to the sunroom, where the late-afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, making the room warm and hospitable. There, in a comfortable chair, he drank two whiskeys, then asked, “And what of this railroad?”
Steed had prepared a map showing the Eastern Shore, and whenever he looked at it his anger rose. “Sir, it should be obvious to anyone that this peninsula ought to be one governmental unit.”
“I tried in vain,” Clay said, chuckling at the obstinacy he had met when sponsoring a bill to bring the three parts of the peninsula into one state. “But have you ever tried to tell one sovereign state anything? Let alone three.” He shook his head, then studied the map. “What have you in mind?”
“Simply this.” And with bold strokes Paul outlined what he thought should happen: “Let the federal government authorize one solid railroad line from Wilmington due south to the tip of Cape Charles. That will unite the whole peninsula to Norfolk across the bay. Then let individual towns build spurs into that major line. And up here, a ferry that will run to Baltimore.”
“Steed, you make enormous good sense, as always. But you overlook one salient fact. The metropolis of this region is destined to be Baltimore, and since wheat has supplanted tobacco as your major crop, Baltimore’s whole preoccupation will be with the West, not the South. When we complete a great railroad to Chicago, the westward pull will be irresistible. Look to Baltimore, not Norfolk.” He was eager to expand on this, but guests began arriving, solid businessmen from various parts of the Choptank, and Clay greeted each with cou
rtly deference, listening carefully as Steed explained who they were.
After a substantial dinner, with three kinds of wine, Mrs. Steed wheeled her chair away from the table and said, “Ladies, I think we should leave the gentlemen to their cigars,” and off she led them.
“Mr. Steed’s been telling me about his hopes—your hopes, that is—for a railroad,” Clay said with an inflection which implied that he supported the idea.
“Yes!” various voices cried, and when the map was fetched, each man explained what he and his group were willing to contribute to the grand design.
“Surely, there would be no way for the rails to cross the Choptank,” Clay said.
“Quite right, sir,” a merchant from Dorchester County agreed. “What we plan is to bring this spur to Patamoke, and end it there. Terminal. On our south bank we build due east and hook on to the main line.”
“Of course, Senator Clay,” a Patamoke man interrupted, “there’d be a ferry across the Choptank. Is now, for that matter,” and he indicated where the little ferry ran.
“It seems a splendid concept,” Clay said.
“You’ll help us?”
“I shall indeed.”
This commitment delighted the Eastern Shore men, because the word of Henry Clay was like bars of gold in a safe built on rock. He was a politician who got things done, the expediter, the slaveholder who understood the North, the one man who saw the nation as a whole.
But the Choptank men wanted to be sure that Clay would be in a position to deliver on his promise. “Is it true that the Kentucky legislature will send you back to the Senate?”
The bluntness of this question, touching as it did on the delicate matter of his uncertain future, must have embarrassed Clay, but he did not show it. Turning to his questioner, he said softly, “From the time I first served in the Kentucky legislature, sir, I have always been at the call of my country. And even though I am now an old man, if Kentucky wishes to summon me to duty, I shall respond.” And then he added, “If I am returned to the Senate, I shall support your railroad. But I want not only your relatively short spurs. I want a whole network of rails, binding this nation together. I want an end to North and South, West and East. Most particularly, I want an end to our bitter rivalry over slavery.”
Railroads were not mentioned again. “You good men of Maryland stand at the border between the rivalries. Some like Steed are southern planters. I imagine that most of you have no slaves.” He asked for a show of hands, and two thirds of the men indicated that they held none.
“So you men at the margin, tell me what we must do to bind this nation together.” He leaned forward, an old man, really a very old man, for he was worn out with fighting, and pointed to each man in turn, seeking advice.
The responses were varied; some men wanted slaveowners to be given the right to carry their slaves into all the new territories opening in the West; some wanted the tariffs imposed by New England congressmen to be lowered; two men suggested that a timetable be set at the end of which all slaves should be set free, say a hundred years from now. And all agreed that the differences currently existing between North and South be dampened.
Now Clay began close questioning. “Let us suppose that a slave runs away from this plantation.”
“It does happen,” Paul conceded, leaning forward to catch Clay’s handling of this ticklish problem.
“Let us suppose further that Mr. Steed’s slave gets as far as Boston.”
“Some go to Canada,” one slaveowner said quickly.
“Should Mr. Steed be encouraged—nay, should he be legally permitted—to go to Boston and recover his slave?”
It was unanimously agreed that he had that right; even the two men who thought that at some distant date all slaves should be set free agreed that under current law Steed had the right to recover his property. “But now,” Clay said, “we come to the sandy part. When Mr. Steed arrives in Boston, is he allowed to enlist the help of the United States marshals stationed there? Or the local police? Or the services of any chance bystander?”
To each of these questions, unanimous affirmatives were given, but before the senator could respond, one of the more liberal men added a word of caution: “I’d like to reconsider my answer on that last question. About enlisting the aid of bystanders. Wouldn’t that be provocative? I mean, the acts would be visible ... in public?”
Clay leaned back as the men hammered out their reactions to this hypothetical case, and he was impressed that in the end all agreed that the return of a man’s lawful property was obligatory. Three times Clay proposed illustrative cases with slight variations and three times the men of Choptank affirmed their early decision: a man’s property was inviolate, and if it ran away, the entire force of society should be mustered for its return.
Now the doors to the dining room swung open and old Tiberius appeared. “Gen’lmen, de ladies is comin’ back.” And he stood aside as Susan wheeled herself into the room, a wrenlike little woman with unextinguishable charm. Within a few minutes she established the fact that she knew as much about this problem of sectionalism as any of the men, except the senator, but custom had dictated that she retire from the serious part of the conversation.
The company slept that night in the mansion, and at breakfast Senator Clay resumed his interrogation of the gentlemen. All morning he talked with them, and at the noonday meal, and all afternoon. An hour before dusk he said that he would like to inspect the plantation, and he walked about two miles, checking everything. At one point he told Steed, who limped along beside him, “One of the best things I’ve done in my life was import good cattle from England. Nothing strengthens a nation more than a solid agriculture.” He approved of Steed’s management and surprised him by saying, “I’ve studied your Reflections, Steed, and am pleased to see that you practice what you preach.”
That night Clay was ready for another three-hour session, but the railroad was mentioned only once. “Tell me, gentlemen, when we do build this road, will it drag your sympathies south toward Norfolk or north toward Philadelphia or west toward Baltimore and Chicago?”
“We’ll always be southerners, sir,” Steed said.
Clay started to respond, but Tiberius was throwing open the doors and in came the ladies. On this night Susan said, “You know, Senator, that I’m an Englishwoman.”
Clay rose and bowed. “Your country sends us brave generals and beautiful women.”
“And I sometimes think that this rivalry between South and North is folly.”
“I think so too, ma’am, like the difference between Ireland and England.”
“Ah, but they’re two different countries.”
“And we must strive to see that South and North do not become two different nations.”
“That we must!” one of the businessmen cried.
Clay reached for the silver bell resting at Paul Steed’s elbow and rang it. When Tiberius appeared, he asked, “Good Tiberius, could you bring glasses for the ladies?” When this was done, and the wine had been passed, Clay proposed a toast. “I have rarely talked with more sensible citizens than those gathered here tonight.” He hesitated. “Are you a citizen, Mrs. Steed?’
“For many years,” she said.
“Ladies and gentlemen, to the Union!”
They drank in silence, all in the room looking over the rims of their glasses at this extraordinary man who had made himself a symbol of all those forces which were striving to hold the nation together: Clay the Compromiser, Clay the man who came to listen.
In the morning, as he walked slowly down to the wharf, he told Steed, “Getting your railroad will not be easy. Our first priority is to finish the rails to Chicago.”
“Then?”
“I can look only one year ahead, Steed. I’m always terrified by the next twelve months.”
The Paxmores, of course, were never invited to social affairs at Rosalind’s Revenge, and this was understandable, for their attitude toward slavery was so at variance with that of
the planters, neither side would have felt comfortable. The slaveowners, being gentlemen, would hesitate to irritate the Quakers by reciting the problems encountered in trying to manage slaves economically, whereas the Quakers, not being gentlemen, would have no reluctance in heckling the slave people about the moral inconsistencies in the system.
“It’s almost as if they reject the established law of the land,” Paul complained, and Susan replied, “They feed their prejudices on that foul literature sent down from Boston and New York. They simply refuse to accept the testimony of their own eyes.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as the way nine hundred slaves live with us in harmony.”
She had identified the tragic difference that separated the two families: the Steeds pointed to their well-run plantation and believed that it compensated for horror camps like Herman Cline’s, while the Paxmores pointed to one horror camp on the Little Choptank and judged it to counterbalance the hundreds of well-run plantations. There was not much meeting of minds.
The difficulty Paul Steed had foreseen arose after the Paxmores had purchased a subscription to The Liberator and demanded that Mr. Cater deliver it to them, something he was forbidden to do. Therefore, whenever the steamboat from Baltimore arrived with editions of either the New York Tribune or The Liberator, he had burned them—“No sedition in Patamoke.”
When George Paxmore satisfied himself that United States mail was being destroyed, he protested, but Cater warned him, “Friend Paxmore, you don’t seem to realize I’m acting in your defense. Suppose I hand you the papers? And advise the sheriff? Off you go to jail.”
The Paxmores lodged a protest in Annapolis, and were advised: “Postmaster Cater is obeying the law.” They wrote to the Postmaster General in Washington, who tossed their complaint to an underling, who answered: “Those at the North can insist that we carry their mail to the South, and this we do, but it is understandable if southern postmasters burn it in conformance to local law.”
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