“Most of the big owners—along the Choptank—they plain stupid. They think nothin’ ever gonna change.” She repeated her ideas to her sons, then returned to Cudjo. “At the bottom of the heap you got Lafe Turlock an’ Herman Cline. Slave-trackers. Cudjo, you best watch out for ’em. They gonna try kill us ... some day.”
“Why us? We ain’t done nothin’.”
“Because we’re free. They hates all black folk, but us free ones they hates the most.”
Cudjo asked how she assessed the Paxmores, and she said, “They tryin’, Cudjo, but they all mixed up.”
“They sure help me.”
“But they think they can change things by bein’ nice. Miss Elizabeth, Mr. George, they doan’ want to harm nobody. Turlock and Cline, they want to harm ever’body.”
“But Mr. Bartley an’ Miss Rachel, they somethin’. You remember that night the slave come to our door?”
How well she remembered! It had been a watershed night for the Caters. This slave had swum across the Choptank, an amazing feat, and had come dripping to their door. Cudjo, aware that he might be sold back into slavery if caught helping a runaway, wanted to turn him away, but Eden laid down the law. “I often think what happen, we have to run away that night Miss Susan sign my paper. I can see the dogs ... us in the swamp ... no friends.” She had pulled the slave into their cabin and said, “Cudjo, ain’t never no slave come to this door an’ failin’ to find help.”
“This here Bartley,” Cudjo resumed, “maybe he doan’ want to fight, but he ain’t afeert of nothin’. Me an’ the slave is runnin’ north. Lafe Turlock an’ his dogs on our trail. Lafe, he shoot at me. Bartley, he step out from behind a tree. They wrassle. Lafe sic his dogs on Bartley. Rachel, she come out an’ bust the dogs with her oar. Ever’body arrested but me an’ the slave. We gits to Pennsylvania. Bartley, he gits two weeks in jail.”
“Yes,” Eden said reflectively, “on the little things they strong. But come the big ones, they gonna be like all the rest.”
“Never old Mrs. Paxmore. She teach me to read. Ever’body warn her, ‘You teach nigger to read, you in trouble.’ But she teach me.”
Eden refused to comment on this special woman, the quiet one who had dared so much. But as for the other whites, they were stumbling in darkness toward a conflict that Eden saw as inevitable—“ ’Cause when I listens at the mansion, Cudjo, all I hear is that even the senators, they doan’ know what comin’ down the road.” But Eden knew.
The final weeks of 1849 were a shambles. The Senate, led by Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, recently returned to it by the legislature of Kentucky, was preparing a vast compromise acceptable to South, North and West which would abolish sectional rivalries, the threat of secession and the possibility of war. Rarely had two great leaders toiled toward a more desirable end.
But the House of Representatives was in disarray. Through fifty-eight agonizing ballots extending over weeks it had been unable to elect a Speaker, its members snarling each at the other like alley dogs. And no solution was in sight. The cause, of course, was slavery, as it would be through the next decade. The House, being less philosophical than the Senate, simply could not reconcile its sectional differences, and the futile debate droned on.
During this impasse one of the greatest intellects our Senate was to produce sent word to Paul Steed that since he had long wanted to meet the writer of the Reflections, he was prepared to cross the bay, even though his health was not the best, and on a sunny day in late December the Baltimore steamer drew up at the wharf and discharged one of the majestic figures of American history.
There was certainly nothing majestic about his appearance. He came from his cabin slowly, leaning on the arms of two sailors. He wore a long black cloak with an extra shepherd’s flap about the shoulders; the fact that he wore no hat allowed his huge mane of white hair to stand out in many directions, but it was his sunken face and burning eyes that created the most lasting impression, for they formed a kind of death mask.
“My God!” Paul muttered as he came down the gangplank. “He’s dying!”
This was John C. Calhoun, United States Senator from South Carolina, incandescent defender of the South. He was five years younger than Henry Clay but looked ninety-five years older. Yet as soon as he was satisfied that his feet were on firm ground, he moved forward eagerly to grasp Paul’s hand.
“My dear Steed,” he said in low, guarded tones, as if he knew he must husband what little strength he had, “I am pleased to meet a man I have admired so much.” As they walked to the mansion, followed by the plantation owners who had come to honor this champion of their cause, he paused from time to time, catching his breath, and in these intervals he allowed the slaveowners to congratulate him on his various, stands in the Senate. Steed was touched to observe the love in which they held him.
It was nearly noontime when the assembly reached the mansion, but Calhoun wanted to start right in with meetings, so the men gathered in the main room while the women refreshed themselves. The men were barely seated when Calhoun startled Paul by saying abruptly:
“Steed, I want you to drop this nonsense about railroads. They’re a northern invention calculated to woo the South away from her ancient virtues. You run a railroad down this peninsula, you turn good southern soil into northern shanties. The future of the South lies with agriculture and a stabilized slave economy.”
He said not another word about railroads, and before Steed could challenge this dismissal, the gaunt old man surveyed the assembled planters as if checking for loyalty. Then, satisfied that he spoke with friends, he stated his philosophy:
“We of the South face a grave crisis in the forthcoming session of Congress. Clay and Webster are plotting, I feel sure, to bring forth some monstrous omnibus bill which will give the North everything and the South nothing. We shall be stripped of our God-given rights. We shall be excluded from the territories. Texas will be cut in half solely because it’s a slave state. There’s talk of forbidding the sale of slaves in Washington. Demeaning to the nation’s capital, they claim. On all fronts we’re in retreat.”
When the slaveowners asked what they must do, he looked at each man with his flashing, deep-set eyes, then asked whether they were determined to protect their rights. In unison they replied, “We are,” and he spread forth his program of defense:
“We must insist upon the right of taking our slaves with us into all the territories. We must keep Texas of maximum size. We must not surrender on Washington, for it is our capital, too. And above all, we must demand of Congress that it pass a fugitive slave law with teeth. If one of your slaves, or mine, runs away to the North, the full power of the federal government must be brought to bear upon that slave, and he must be returned to his rightful owner.”
Admiring discussion of this strategy ensued, with one planter after another lauding Calhoun for his clear vision, but he brushed aside the encomiums, shifted in his chair, and proceeded to the main body of his thought:
“I take my stand not as a southerner but as a man concerned with the destiny of my country. We’re different from other nations. We’re a minority, and the day will come when the other nations of the world will combine against us, simply because we are a minority dedicated to freedom while they rely on cruel oppression of their peoples. In those days a great philosophical debate will develop as to how the rights of a minority can be preserved against the overwhelming pressures of a majority. The United States will stand alone, gentlemen, and it will then confront the problem that we confront today. How can a righteous minority protect itself against the thoughtless tyranny of the majority?”
He spent a glowing half-hour developing this theme, that what the South faced in 1849, the entire nation would face in 1949. He was dazzling in the brilliance of his arguments, his marshaling of classical antecedents. He was the fiery protector of liberty, the man who saw the future almost as a revelation. Then he spread his trembling hands on the arms of his chair and said, “There, gentlemen, is the p
roblem on which we are engaged.”
Old Tiberius appeared at the door with news that dinner was spread, and the men trooped in to try the terrapin, the oysters and the venison. It was a relaxed, gracious meal in which politics arose only when one of the wives told the senator of the unfortunate affair with Postmaster Cater. “All he was doing was protecting us from the filth spewed out from New York and Boston.”
“Did the good man find a job elsewhere?” Calhoun asked.
“Yes, in South Carolina.”
“We have always been the last refuge of free men,” Calhoun said.
The talks continued through the afternoon and all the next day. Calhoun let his listeners know that he felt the United States to be at a point of peril; there was a real possibility that the South might have to sever the Union because the North refused to respect its rights. And as he talked every man who listened realized that here was a senator who was wrestling in the closing days of his life with the most profound problems; he was a man who lived in a world different from theirs, in which facts impinged on concepts and concepts on the structure of national life. He lived at a degree of intensity that none of them could equal, and one planter from Dorchester County said, as he guided his sloop back across the Choptank, “He’s like a volcano that’s been shooting fire so long, it’s split its sides.”
When the guests were gone, Paul supposed that the tired old man would want to spend a couple of days in rest, but that was not Calhoun’s style. “Steed, you brought me only southerners, men and women already converted to our side. I’d like to meet some of your northern apologists. I need to know what they’re thinking.”
“You mean now?”
“I mean this afternoon. When I return to Washington, if the House can ever organize, I enter a great debate on the future of this nation. I’d like to know what the ones on the other side are saying.”
“The only ...” A daring idea flashed into Paul’s mind. “Senator, we have a family of Quakers just across ...”
“Fetch them. I’ve never talked with Quakers.”
So a boat was dispatched to Peace Cliff, and at two that afternoon it returned with four Paxmores: George the boatbuilder; Elizabeth the quiet spokeswoman; young Bartley, afire with ideas; and Rachel, daughter of the avowed abolitionist Starbuck. They seemed very prim as they marched up the gravel path to the house they had not visited in many years, the women in gray and bonneted, the men in black with flat hats perched above their austere faces, but all four walked with an eagerness that pleased Calhoun. “They look like early Christians in Rome, marching to the lions.” He laughed, then added, “Well, today I’m their lion.”
In his thank-you letter to Steed, Calhoun would write: “I have rarely met a woman who impressed me so favorably as your Elizabeth Paxmore. At first she seemed prudish and severe, but when I listened to her gentle explanations, so forcefully yet intelligently expressed, I found myself wishing that she were on our side. You said you rarely see this family. If you see Elizabeth, give her my regards.”
The session was memorable in that it occupied itself with only the most vibrant differences between the sections, as if all participants agreed that the afternoon was too precious to waste in trivialities:
CALHOUN: I think we can start best by agreeing that the Negro is an inferior human being, destined to serve the white man in a secondary capacity.
ELIZABETH: That I refuse to concede. I teach Negroes. Yes, against the law. But I do teach them, and I assure thee, Senator, they learn as rapidly as thy son.
CALHOUN: It grieves me to think that you put yourself outside the law, Mrs. Paxmore, as if you knew better than Congress.
RACHEL: On this we do know best.
CALHOUN: So young, so self-assured?
RACHEL: Tormented, Mr. Calhoun. I seem to know nothing these days except the inevitability of conflict.
CALHOUN: How old are you, ma’am?
RACHEL: Twenty-eight.
CALHOUN: You should be tending your babies. Now if, as I insist, the Negro is inferior, then the best process ever devised for handling him is slavery. It provides his freedom.
BARTLEY: How can a sane man think that?
CALHOUN: Because the finest minds since the beginning of time have thought it. Jesus Christ, Plato, George Washington. Slavery was devised by ancient wisdom and has never been improved upon.
BARTLEY: Is thee satisfied with the way it operates in South Carolina?
CALHOUN: It’s the salvation of South Carolina, the basis of all our progress.
ELIZABETH: Does thee teach thy slaves to read the Bible?
CALHOUN: The slave requires no learning. The Bible must be interpreted for him. Is that not right, Steed?
ELIZABETH: Before Paul answers, I think I should warn thee that I know how he interprets the Bible when he reads to his slaves. “Slaves, obey thy masters.”
CALHOUN: That’s what the Bible says.
RACHEL: But it says so much more.
CALHOUN: And the unbridled teaching of that more will only unsettle the slaves, confuse them. We have learned, over the past two centuries, how best to handle Negroes. They’re children, delightful children when they’re not misled by some half-educated preacher like Nat Turner.
ELIZABETH: They are men and women, just as capable of comprehending the Bible as thee or I.
CALHOUN: There you are in error. I can look forward to the day, one hundred years from now, say 1949, when some kind of freedom may have been won by the Negro, but I assure you, Mrs. Paxmore, that on that day toward which you look, the Negro will not be free in his own mind. He will live not off the charity of the plantation but off the charity of the government. He will never be able to govern himself, or save money, or regulate his life. He will huddle in your cities and receive his charity, and be the slave he has always been.
ELIZABETH: Senator, he will be attending Harvard and Princeton, with thy grandchildren, and there will be scarce, if any, distinction between them.
CALHOUN: No black man will ever master enough knowledge to enter Yale, which I attended.
RACHEL: What about Frederick Douglass. Has thee read his book?
CALHOUN: Steed here has settled Douglass. Proved his book was written by white men.
RACHEL: Sir, does thee always ignore evidence that goes against thy prejudices?
CALHOUN: (speaking to George): Do Quaker husbands ... I’ve never met Quakers, before, you know. Do you always allow your women to carry the debate?
GEORGE: It’s very difficult to halt them, sir. Especially when they’re right.
CALHOUN: Do you agree with these women?
GEORGE: Totally.
CALHOUN: Then I fear we’re in for dangerous times. Over the last two days I spoke with the plantation owners of this region. They agree with me heartily. Don’t you see the conflict you’re sponsoring? I was taught that Quakers love peace.
ELIZABETH: We do, and are constantly drawn away from it. By slavery.
CALHOUN: You know, of course, that in some states you could go to jail for teaching Negroes. Steed, you must be aware of that. (Before any of the Paxmores could respond, he abruptly changed the subject.) Have any of you read Mr. Steed’s fine book on this subject?
RACHEL: We all have. Out of respect for a distinguished neighbor.
CALHOUN: And how did his impressive logic affect you?
RACHEL: As the mutterings of a good-hearted, totally confused gentleman who will not know what happened when the hurricane strikes.
CALHOUN: Are you four abolitionists?
RACHEL: I am. The others—
CALHOUN: Please, young lady! Let them speak for themselves.
ELIZABETH: We do not categorize ourselves.
CALHOUN: But it was you who received through the mails the seditious literature.
ELIZABETH: Senator, freedom is not sedition.
CALHOUN: It is when it deprives Steed of his rightful property.
ELIZABETH: Paul Steed cannot own human beings.
CALHOUN
: The law says he can. Congress says he can.
RACHEL: Then the law must be blown aside, the way winds of autumn blow the leaves away. Once they were green, and once they served a useful purpose, but now it’s winter and they’ve fallen.
CALHOUN: Instruct me. If Congress passes a law with strong teeth, requiring citizens in all parts of the nation—I mean Boston and Philadelphia and Chicago ... These citizens must by law return all runaway slaves to their rightful owners.
RACHEL: My God!
CALHOUN: You’re not averse to taking the name of the Lord in vain.
RACHEL: Is thee contemplating such a law?
CALHOUN: It will be registered before this time next year. And what will you Paxmores do about it? I need to know.
GEORGE: We will resist it with every fiber in our bodies. I say that as a resident of Patamoke. Thee can imagine what it will be like in the cities like Boston. The entire—
CALHOUN: Even if it’s the law of the land?
GEORGE: If thee passes such a law, Senator, it dies of its own weight that afternoon.
CALHOUN: It will carry jail sentences for those who interfere.
GEORGE: Build very large jails, Senator.
CALHOUN: I understand this might shock certain ... well, Quakers like yourselves. But with the passage of time?
GEORGE: Every day will intensify the resistance. I assure thee, Senator, thee cannot enforce such a law.
CALHOUN: Then you foresee what I see? The possibility of war between the sections?
RACHEL: We do.
CALHOUN: But I thought that Quakers ...
ELIZABETH: Like thee, Senator. We live in confusion. We know of thy intense patriotism in 1812. And of thy strong Union sympathies in the years that followed. Thee was a different man, then.
CALHOUN: The intransigence of the North forced me to alter.
ELIZABETH: It must have been at terrible philosophical expense. (Calhoun shrugged his shoulders.)
GEORGE: It’s been the same with us. Our family has invariably preached peace. But we had to go to war against the pirates. We had to build ships to fight the English in 1777. Our ships went back to war in 1814. And now we face an ever more terrifying possibility. It’s not easy to be a Quaker, and I suppose it isn’t easy to be a senator.
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