by Lois Leveen
Mistress Van Lew knew Mama wasn’t one to swear to Jesus falsely. Our irate mistress turned to her daughter.
“Bet, this abolitionist nonsense of yours has gone too far. How you have managed it, I do not know, but now at least you see your faith in the servants is poorly placed. The girl may know how to read, but she does not know enough to keep your secrets.” Her eyes went narrow. “Perhaps sending Mary to Lumpkin’s Alley will teach you both a lesson.”
Fear cramped my stomach, catching its echo in Mama’s low moan. White Richmond called the public whipping post Lumpkin’s Alley, after the slave-auction house next door. But to colored folks it was Devil’s Half-Acre, the most dreaded spot in the whole city.
Miss Bet jutted out her chin. “I am not sorry to see a slave learn, it is true, but this is as strange to me as it is to you. If you have the child flogged to punish me for something I haven’t done, you will only prove that slavery is every bit as evil as I believe it to be.”
Mistress Van Lew whirled at me, cracking a hard slap against my cheek. I felt the sudden sting and knew it was a pale promise of the beating I’d get at the whipping post. “Who taught you to read, child? I will stand no lies.”
“No one, ma’am. I don’t know how to read.” Mama was so near, yet I sensed she didn’t dare reach out to comfort me, that I needed to say more to make Mistress Van Lew leave us be. “Miss Bet read the story to you. I only remembered what she said.”
Mistress Van Lew snatched the news-sheet from my hand and passed it to her daughter. “Tell us now, without the paper, what Miss Bet read.”
And so I repeated the story, as Miss Bet followed along in the news-sheet. After only a few sentences, she burst out, “Mother, it is remarkable. The child recites the article word for word.” Miss Bet beamed at my accomplishment. “She wasn’t reading at all. Stranger than that, she can recall exactly what she hears.”
Mistress Van Lew spent a long moment considering what this meant. Finally, she looked from me, to Mama, to Miss Bet. “No one is to know of this, do I make myself clear to all of you? This is a dangerous thing. Do not speak of it again.” Her daily promenade in the garden forgotten, she went into the mansion, leaving each of us to make our own sense of what I’d done.
Mama took the revelation of my talent as a sign from on high. For as long as I could remember, I’d heard her recount every tale in the Bible about a barren woman, remembering how she spent the first twenty years of her marriage childless. “I prayed every day, thinking of Sarah and Rebecca and Rachel. Wasn’t a one of them bore a child right off. That poor wife of Manoah, not even a name for her, who had Samson. Elizabeth, who carried John the Baptist. Those women were blessed with a child to raise up to serve the Lord, and year after year I begged Jesus to do the same for me. Then at last you come along.”
Mama’s vow to dedicate me to Jesus’s service always gave her reason to cajole and connive Him and me both. “You know this child is meant for Your work, Jesus”—thus would begin anything from a reprimand of my ill behavior to as outlandish a demand as nagging Jesus to set me free. If Mama suspected either Jesus or me of slacking in fulfilling the plan she envisioned, she was sure to let us know. And whatever she felt I did right became certain proof to her that this plan was already writ in stone.
So despite the law and Mistress Van Lew’s prohibition, after that morning on the veranda Mama set time aside every Sunday for my lessons. She’d trace out a few words in the ashes of Papa’s fireplace. Keeping her voice low, she always began, “This being Virginia, I sure can’t teach a slave that this writing means …” and finished by saying what she’d written. It didn’t take any more instruction than that for me to learn to read and write.
Miss Bet, ever fain to flout her mother, took her own interest in me. As I grew older, she pressed books from her father’s library on Mama, nodding my way. Now and again, she even sat me down for an arithmetic lesson while the rest of her family was out. But my memory for Mistress Van Lew’s anger was just as keen as my memory for what I heard and read. I hated her for it, until I was grown enough to realize the lesson she taught me was as valuable as any of Mama’s: A slave best keep her talents hidden, feigned ignorance being the greatest intelligence in the topsy-turvy house of bondage.
Two
Colored Richmond didn’t suffer the isolation that benighted plantation slaves. Between the news-sheets surreptitiously gathered by those who could read, and the white people’s conversations carefully monitored by slaves and free negroes in the businesses, streets, and homes of the city, we followed the political goings-on in Washington more easily than many whites in the far-off Western states and territories did. And we understood that we had as much of a stake as them in the outcome. At prayer meetings and market days, negroes who knew more stole time to inform those who knew less. Come 1850, this talk centered on a harsh new law to force the free states to return runaway slaves to their Southern owners, passed by the federal Congress in exchange for California’s entrance into the Union as a free state.
Hearing about the new Fugitive Slave Act, we all shivered vulnerable. Every colored person in Richmond knew folks who’d already disappeared North to take their freedom, as well as some still in the city who, though they didn’t advertise the fact, were planning to do the same real soon. Richmond was the north of the South, close enough to the Free States we nearly breathed their air, or so we liked to believe. The Fugitive Slave Act turned that free air to slavery’s stink, right in our mouths and noses.
Virginia’s slaveholders wanted California and the rest of the Western territories open to slavery. They railed when Congress passed the Compromise, cussing Federal this, proclaiming States’ Rights that. So white Richmond was vindicated and colored Richmond was scared come autumn, when a special state convention began its own series of debates, which seemed calculated to show they could outdo the national politicians in boxing in slaves and free negroes alike. But worrisome as the convention was, I found myself grateful for what it offered me in the way of political education.
Miss Bet’s thirty-second birthday coincided with the start of the convention, and she celebrated with a birthday dinner after her own fashion, attended by a dozen guests she deemed adequately aligned to her principles.
A dinner party of this size—even one filled with anti-slavery talk—required a week of redoubled efforts for us slaves. Lilly and Daisy, who normally did the laundry, attended Mistress Van Lew, and helped with the housecleaning, were temporarily recruited to assist Zinnie with procuring ingredients and preparing the meal. The house, which wasn’t ever dirty by any stretch, needed to be immaculate, and so Old Sam and even Josiah joined Mama and me as we set to work sweeping, dusting, and polishing everything in sight.
At age eleven, I well understood that the arrival of any visitor was an opportunity to enlarge our holding of that most valuable commodity: information. My keen memory proved especially useful on such occasions, so as soon as I was old enough to be put to tasks before company, Mama encouraged the Van Lews to do so. I didn’t much mind helping serve and clear rather than laboring elsewhere in the house, with all the Van Lews’ guests gave me to listen to. In the days following such events, I recounted what I’d heard, so that no morsel was lost. I didn’t necessarily understand everything I repeated, until Mama and the other grown-ups chewed it out among themselves, with me listening as carefully to them as I did to the white people. But that night I made out enough to wonder what the debate among Miss Bet’s guests might signify for her, and for me.
“Such fuss at the train station,” complained a plump redhead whose well-powdered face I didn’t recognize. “And all those hacks clogging the streets.”
“And for what? To hash out another of these infernal compromises.” Frederick Walker was Miss Bet’s age, and every bit as brash. I relished his visits, which nearly always riled Young Master John into dudgeon and Mistress Van Lew into a conniption fit. “Better to settle the matter once and for all.”
“Settle?
” a gray-haired man seated beside Mistress Van Lew repeated. “Impossible. Do you suppose our dear Virginia will ever rid herself of slavery?”
“Even where slavery is steadfastly entrenched,” replied Franklin Stearns, another of Miss Bet’s favorites, “it is hardly universally embraced.”
This last sentence stuck with us for months to come, repeated whenever we in the house faced a particularly distasteful chore, or when one of the Van Lews grew especially cross. “Not hardly universally embraced,” Daisy would mutter, scraping manure from Young Master John’s riding boots. “No time for universal embracing,” Mama would warn, shooing me to work in the cellar until one of Miss Bet’s sour moods passed. We knew that as long as there were slaves in slavery, the institution was hardly universally embraced. But Miss Bet’s anti-slavery set didn’t think to count the lowly bondsmen’s opinion on such matters. And so we continued our rounds about the room, serving and clearing in silence as they kept up their debate.
“Virginians who hold no slaves are tired of seeing their interests subsumed to those of the planters,” said Walker. “Slavery benefits them not a whit, so why should they support it?”
“We are not planters,” Mistress Van Lew reminded him. “Yet how would we manage without our few slaves? Do you suggest we let the poor mountain folk from the western part of the state dictate how we live?”
I wasn’t quite sure what mountain folk were, though I liked the notion of anyone who might dictate to my mistress. I quickened my pace as I circled the table with the cabbage pudding, to be nearer to Walker as he made his reply.
“Madam, with all due respect, I must disagree that the planters’ interests are your own. Your husband was a mercantile man. Such men build fortunes in the North, employing only free workers. Surely the same can be true here.”
I thought mercantile was some sort of insult, from the frowning way Mistress Van Lew signaled Old Sam to bring her more claret.
Young Master John, who showed little sympathy and less patience for his sister’s guests, leaned forward to challenge Walker. “Your nephew has gone to Charlottesville to study law. Do you think we should have so grand a university there without slavery? Buildings like those all over the eastern half of the state were built with hardware we sold, hardware bought with the proceeds of slaveholding.”
“A sensible businessman looks to the future, not to the past,” said Stearns. He always insisted on whiskey instead of wine, and when he drew so long a sip, Mama gave a little nod to make sure I marked whatever he said next. “Virginia’s soil has grown so poor, the Tidewater plantations produce more slaves than crops—and the profit from the latter does not cover the costs of feeding and clothing the former. Why not wean ourselves from slavery altogether, as the Northern states did a generation ago?”
Young Master John relished the chance to disagree. “Those excess slaves are one of our greatest resources. They can be leased or sold off, within the state and throughout the South—and West, if new territories are settled to our interest.” He directed Mama to ladle gravy onto his plate until it covered the rabbit and pooled around the pudding. “My dry-goods suppliers in Boston and Philadelphia complain they are increasingly subject to the interests of a few financial houses in New York, which control more and more of the Northern economy. If Richmond is to prosper, we should model ourselves on Charleston and New Orleans, not on cities in the North. Our future rests in distinguishing ourselves from those New York dominates.”
William Carrington, a reserved physician who lived in the row of Carrington family residences on Broad Street, attempted to cool the heated exchange. “John, do you believe the state convention will bring customers into your stores?”
Though the question didn’t much interest me, I marked how Young Master John puffed up with pride when he answered. “I hope it will. There are men attending with whom I usually do business only by post. And others with whom I’ve never had dealings but who will take the opportunity to see what wares we sell that they can’t easily obtain in their own parts of the state.”
“Well then, observe those western Virginians closely,” Dr. Carrington said. “They have ingenuity, even if they lack the capital to establish plantations. They no longer consent to having only the wealthiest among us electing our leaders, and I venture they won’t leave Richmond until they obtain suffrage for all white men in Virginia.”
Walker didn’t hold back his enthusiasm at this prediction, lifting his glass as he replied. “Once they secure a voice in the legislature, things will change in their favor, however gradually. We will be wise to align our interests with theirs.”
I wasn’t sure what those western Virginians’ interests might mean for negroes. Before I could puzzle it out, Miss Bet jumped in, avid as ever for the last word. “Whatever new laws they make for male suffrage won’t give me the right to vote. But I come into the final portion of my inheritance today, and I mean to use as much of it as I can for the cause of abolition.”
She rang the hostess bell. As her guests began the next course, Mama, Old Sam, and I stepped back from the table, little imagining how her vow would change all our lives forever.
For slaves from the countryside who were rented out to Richmond’s factories and mills, the period between Christmas and New Year’s was a holiday. Most returned to their plantations to spend the week with family, reappearing on the first of January to throng the streets in a frenzy of hiring negotiations, which would set the place and terms of their labor for the coming year. Richmond seemed empty during their absence, our prayer meeting especially so. But it was gay times, too, for those who remained.
No week off for the house slaves, of course. Slaveholders could hardly go a whole week without a cooked meal or a cleaned dish. We were given the day after Christmas off, our celebration delayed so that we might tend the white people at their holiday dinners. The Van Lews fancied themselves especially benevolent, so I was excused from chores through to New Year’s, and Mama was given leave to spend every night of the week with Papa—so long as she was back on Church Hill before the Van Lews were awake, laboring there as always until after they were gone to bed. The blacksmith shop was closed, and with the week away from his labors, Papa doted on me. All year, I looked forward to spending those short, magical days promenading through Richmond’s streets with him.
But the weeks leading up to Christmastide were filled with extra labors. Only a few years earlier, a German minister arrived to serve at St. Paul’s, the new church across from Capitol Square. By 1850, all the prominent white families were joining in the queer yuletide custom he practiced. It was no playful riddle, just plain old riled, that had Mama muttering, “What do we in the house need with a tree in the house?” as we arranged the drawing room furniture to accommodate the evergreen arrival. Mistress Van Lew got it into her head to decorate the tree with homemade candy, which she would distribute at the Richmond orphanage on Christmas Night. She was awfully thoughtful of all those poor white children, though less thoughtful of Zinnie, who had to cook up confections enough to cover the tree from highest to lowest bough.
For weeks beforehand, I was set to cutting and tying ribbons for the branches. Every now and again, Zinnie slipped me a bit of candy from what she was preparing, and as I sucked on the sweet, I thought over our familiar Christmas Day routine. In the morning, the Van Lews would cross Grace Street, walking a block north to Broad Street to attend morning service at St. John’s Church. They would come home to a large holiday dinner, joined by at least half a dozen guests. By five in the afternoon, the meal over and the visitors departed, the slaves would be called into the living room and given our Christmas gifts. We happily received these little adornments chosen by Mistress Van Lew, raised our voices in a requisite hymn or two, and then even more happily dispersed. Papa always waited for Mama and me outside the Twenty-fourth Street entrance to the Van Lew property, as excited as I was for the week ahead.
But this year Miss Bet was behaving even more bizarrely than usual. By ear
ly December, her anti-slavery tirades racketed to such a tense crescendo it seemed she might spoil our whole holiday. Even when she finally gave off haranguing her mother, Mistress Van Lew fell to such sighing and shaking of her head, she seemed certain Miss Bet couldn’t allow anyone so much as a momentary peace. But what really set me worrying was when Miss Bet told Mama, “Please have Lewis here when we return from church on Christmas. We will need him during dinner.”
In all my memory, Papa never set foot in the Van Lew mansion. Even Papa’s owner, Timothy Mahon, an Irishman with a steady blacksmithing business, would hardly be expected through the servants’ entrances of the grand houses atop Church Hill. I understood that Papa must obey Master Mahon just as Mama and I must obey the Van Lews, and I knew instinctively the deference with which any colored person, free or slave, acted around whites. But to have Miss Bet assuming Papa was at her beck and call—it was so astonishing even Mama hardly knew how to respond.
“Miss Bet, Lewis isn’t trained to house service. He’d be clumsy in front of your guests. I’m sure that Old Sam and I can manage without him.”
“Aunt Minnie, I don’t need anyone to tell me my own mind. If I say we must have Lewis, then I expect you to see that he will come.”
Trammeled by Miss Bet’s insistence, Mama play-acted meek. “I’ll let him know you want him, ma’am, when next I see him.”
That was Saturday, and by the time we entered Papa’s cabin the next morning, Mama was anything but meek. “That woman confounds me more each day. One minute she’s barking about the sins of slaveholding, the next she’s ordering around every negro in Richmond. I’ll tell her you’re busy for Marse Mahon. Maybe that will remind her that you aren’t her slave, too.”
“What use do Mahon have for his smiths on Christmas Day?” Papa cocked his head toward me and shirked his shoulders, a signal he gave Mama whenever he had something to say he didn’t want me to hear.