by Paul Colt
“I see. That seems a reasonable plan. When might you begin?”
“Preparations are already under way. I should think we might begin in May, June at the latest.”
“Excellent, Jefferson. Find us a good route, and leave the politics to the politicians. Those matters are in capable hands.”
“I hope so, Mr. President.”
“Come now, Jefferson, I have a taste for pudding myself.”
Hudson, Ohio
July, 1853
“West?” The question rolled off Hiram Mason’s tongue, leaving behind a sour taste.
“You can’t be serious, Micah.” Eugenie dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry, Ma, but we are.” Micah wrapped a protective arm around Clare’s shoulder, standing together on the news that struck Sunday’s family dinner silent. “We’ve given it a great deal of thought. There is a future to be had out there.”
“But you have a future here,” Pa said. “We have the farm.”
“We do have the farm, Pa, with more than enough mouths to feed without Clare and me adding to the number. We need to make our own future.”
Pa considered the practicality of his son’s point.
“Hiram, you must make him see reason.”
“He does see reason, dear. We may not feel it in our hearts, but Micah sees it clearly in his thinking. Where might you go, son? ‘West’ takes in a great deal of territory.”
“We’re not certain yet, Pa. Somewhere we might take advantage of prosperity brought by the railroad.”
“Railroads? What do you know of railroads?”
“I know they make opportunity wherever they go. You’ve only to look around us to see the effects on commerce.”
“Commerce? You’re a farmer.”
“I am a farmer, a small farmer. With a railroad to transport crops to markets too far to serve by wagon, cash crops become practical. Cash crops can be grown on a large scale.”
“Farming is a family business.”
“It doesn’t have to be. Our farm is small because we have a limited amount of land. Land here is expensive. That keeps us small. Land in the west is plentiful and there for working it.”
“The size of a farm is limited by the labor needed to work it.”
“Farming on a large scale can be done. Consider the cotton plantations in the South.”
“They do so with slave labor! You can’t possibly be thinking of that.”
“Not slave labor, Pa. Cash crops can pay hired help.”
“Hmm.”
All eyes were riveted on Micah, brothers and sisters open mouthed at the power of his argument.
“Hiram, please talk sense to the boy.”
“Eugenie, he’s not a boy. He’s a man with a wife and the prospect of a family to provide for.” Hiram paused to fold his napkin. “What sort of cash crop are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. It will depend on the suitability of the land. I’m studying corn and wheat.”
His father nodded. “I can see those possibilities.”
“Oh, Hiram.” Ma rose, signaling the girls to begin clearing the dishes.
CHAPTER TWO
* * *
Washington City
November, 1853
Cold, gray afternoon lit the office window. Senator Douglas sat at his desk reading draft legislation. He set it aside and removed his spectacles. He’d found the way, of course. He always did. The irony of it appealed to him. The way forward from the current impasse was simply a return to the condition that created it in the first place. Fashioning the legislation had been trivial. Navigating it through the crosscurrents of a bitterly divided Congress would require every ounce of his considerable political acumen. That started with securing the confidence of the greatest skeptics, his own Democrat colleagues in the southern caucus. He might be a Democrat, but as a northerner he could not be completely trusted. He’d chosen his co-sponsor candidate carefully with that difficulty in mind.
“Senator Atchison to see you, sir.”
He glanced at the door. His secretary waited expectantly. He rose to greet his guest. “Send him in, Robert.”
Senator David Rice Atchison of Missouri strode into the office.
“David, good afternoon. Good of you to come.” Douglas crossed the floor, his hand extended.
“When the chair of a committee as important as Territories calls, what choice has a good soldier but to obey?”
“I should hope you think of it more as the invitation of a colleague. Please have a seat.” He gestured to the settee drawn up before the fireplace.
“I shall judge the occasion by the subject matter for discussion.”
The guarded reservation suited Atchison, who personified the stiff demeanor of a fire and brimstone preacher. Long of feature, his dour expression became exaggerated by a mop of wavy, brown hair swept back from a broad forehead. He wore a severe frock coat, cravat, and vest. He folded his frame into the offered cushions.
“Ever the vigilant pragmatic.” Douglas retrieved the draft legislation from his desk and took a wing chair beside the settee.
“So, what’s on your mind, Stephen?”
“I need your help, David.”
“Of course you do. That’s why I’m here. The question is help with what?”
“Right to the point. Help in building a rail route to the Pacific.”
“I’ve listened to the arguments. I’ve read your opinions as reported in the press. One can hardly argue the notion on merit. It’s the sensitivity of where it will be built that gives us pause.”
“Which is precisely why I need your help.”
“Help to deliver the southern caucus to be sure, but deliver it to what purpose? The surveys have yet to be completed.”
“True, they haven’t been completed, but it doesn’t matter. No matter the route recommended, any proposal will run afoul of the Missouri Compromise.”
“You propose to repeal it?”
“It no longer serves the purpose for which it was intended.”
“At the risk of speaking for my colleagues, I must tell you anything that upsets the balance of power in the Senate will never be enacted.”
“Which is why I need your help. I’ve had a bill drawn. I’d like you to sign on as a co-sponsor.”
“And champion it in our caucus.”
“If you believe it to be the way forward.” He handed Mason the bill.
“The Kansas-Nebraska Act. Two territories—one slave, the other presumably free.”
“That’s how the old formula worked.”
“And this bill of yours would repeal the Missouri Compromise?”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean ‘not yet’?”
“It will after you discuss it with your caucus. They’ll demand it, and we’ll give it to them.”
“Clever. That should appeal to my side, but your northern friends will never stand for it.”
“True. They’ll scream bloody murder. They will support the Pacific railroad on merit just as you do. They will see the need to replace the compromise in order to achieve that noble purpose. In return for repealing the compromise, we will delegate determination of the slavery issue to the territories.”
Mason handed the bill back to Douglas. “I shall never ask my colleagues to support anything so uncertain.”
“David, do you honestly expect you can get certainty? Do you seriously believe you can long oppose the national destiny this railroad represents? Consider the practicalities. Slavery is an agrarian institution in the south. Abolition is high-minded morality in the industrial north. How do you think the territories will decide for themselves?”
“If that is your plan, why doesn’t your bill provide territorial sovereignty on the issue?”
“My good friend, we need something to give our northern friends when they do raise hell.”
“I see. You are a clever bastard, Stephen. One last question. Why now?”
“We have a sympa
thetic White House. Will you join me then?”
“Let me think on it. May I discuss it with some of my colleagues?”
“Please do.”
Two Weeks Later
“Senator Atchison to see you, sir.”
Douglas waved him in.
Atchison strode across the office without formality. “Stephen.” He took a wing chair across from the senator’s desk.
“I take it you’ve had a chance to think over my invitation.”
He nodded. “That and discuss it with a few of my colleagues.”
“And?”
“Senator Dixon of Kentucky has the ear of the caucus. He was both strident and eloquent in stating a case my colleagues wholeheartedly embraced. We can’t support your Kansas-Nebraska Act, I’m afraid, without repeal of the Missouri Compromise.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I would make their position clear to you.”
“You have. I accept.”
“I thought you might. Now we shall see if your brokered horse trading can bring the other side along.”
“No brokered trading this time. We’ll introduce the bill to the new Congress next year. Let the fireworks start on the floor so our friends have the luxury of vigorous political opposition, before we surrender to our victory.”
“You are a devious bastard, Stephen.”
Douglas smiled. “Merry Christmas, David.”
CHAPTER THREE
* * *
Washington City
February, 1854
“The chair recognizes the honorable senator from the great state of Massachusetts for the purpose of debate.”
Senator Charles Sumner strode across the chamber floor to the podium. His angular frame hunched forward, his lion-like dark mane bent in concentration. His demeanor rendered grim by the gravity of the matter at hand. A formidable orator, Sumner’s abolitionist views were well known and widely anticipated. He was rumored to be aligning himself with those who sought to form a new Republican party. He mounted the podium and let his gaze wander over the assembled chamber. A cough here, a shuffle of paper there was all that could be heard from a chamber in anticipation.
“Gentle friends,” he paused, allowing the timbre of his voice to draw his audience to attention. “I stand before you today in opposition to the legislative proposal known as the Kansas-Nebraska Act. By its repeal of the Missouri Compromise, this bill seeks to further the sinful stain of slavery on the moral fabric of this great nation.”
The Democrat delegation shifted in uneasy courtesy while members of the southern caucus could be heard to grumble under their breath.
“If that causes some in this assembly discomfort, so be it. The keeping of slaves, even those certain societies may deem of inferior station, is morally repugnant. It cannot be justified in a free society founded under the guidance of almighty God. For thirty-four years, the Missouri Compromise has provided a bulwark against the spread of the moral contagion that is slavery. Now, the measure before this body, this Kansas-Nebraska Act, seeks to restore the immoral quid pro quo progression of this sin against God and nature.
“How can we, as men of conscience, contemplate such an action?” He paused. “Ask yourself that question. Bow your head in prayer over the answer. Do we justify such an action in the name of some destiny to westward expansion? Some say such a destiny is manifest. Manifest by whom? Manifest by our Divine Creator? Are we to believe that the highest power foreordains the spread of this evil? Nay, I say! Never! We are called to put aside this evil practice, not perpetuate it.
“I call on all members of this body and all men of clean heart and clear conscience to join me in opposition to this travesty. Surely our ambition to westward expansion can be accommodated without subjecting the weaker among us to a life of involuntary servitude. This nation was founded in freedom. It can no longer abide denying the disadvantaged the nectar of freedom so as to profit the advantaged few. How can we, as men of conscience, contemplate such an action? Ask yourself that question to the depths of your soul.
“Mr. President, I yield the floor.”
Abolitionists, Whigs, and Republicans rose in an explosion of support. The southern delegation scowled disapproval restrained by decorum. Their northern Democrat sympathizers sat in uncomfortable solidarity. The gavel rang calling the chamber to order.
“This body stands adjourned until two o’clock for midday recess.”
Senator Sumner crossed the floor and marched up the aisle, accepting the congratulations of fellow abolitionists and the chill disregard of those who opposed him. As he neared the chamber entrance, he noticed a diminutive figure awaiting him. Senator Douglas would no doubt have sharp words of disagreement. Sumner meant to pass him by. They had little to discuss.
“Eloquent as usual, Charles. May I have a word?”
Sumner paused. “Was it something I failed to make clear?”
Douglas smiled. “Of course not. You made yourself perfectly clear. In fact, you said something I rather agree with.”
“Good heavens, you don’t mean I’ve changed your mind on some point.”
“On this point, I’ve no need to change. You said there must be a way to accommodate our ambition to westward expansion. We both agree on that. There’s too much at stake here not to. We’ve only to find the accommodation. May we talk?”
“Where? I’ve not much time, but I’m listening.”
Douglas glanced around the chamber slowly emptying for lunch. “This way.” He led them to the cloak room off the foyer.
A cloak room, Sumner thought. One of the most divisive issues to come before the Senate in decades, and they turn to a cloak room to discuss it.
“Is there some accommodation you have in mind, Stephen?”
“Not that I can specifically propose. As I understand your position, it’s repeal of the Missouri Compromise that causes your opposition, not the prospect of a Pacific railroad.”
“True.”
“Our southern friends of course have a deeply vested interest in maintaining a balanced representation between slave and free states in this body.”
“A balance that can’t last. You’re a pragmatic man, Stephen. Surely you know that.”
“I do know that. I don’t hold with slavery myself. My position may not be as fervent as yours, but I don’t believe the practice can withstand the test of time. It’s more a matter of when and how it comes to an end. You make the point morality will guide people of good conscience to that conclusion. The practice of slavery is a southern tradition. We don’t see it much in the north where, for the most part, people of good character have rejected the practice. Frankly, I think if the question were left to people of good character, the practice would come to a natural end.”
Sumner knit his brows. “You might be on to something there, Stephen.”
“On to what?”
“Popular sovereignty. Let the people decide the disposition of the issue in the expansion territories. After all, morality is on the right side of the issue.”
“That does make some sense. Would your members go along with such a thing?”
“They might. I can ask.”
“Do that. We’ll still have to repeal the Missouri Compromise to retain southern support. With luck, they won’t see the moral imperative the way we do. It just might work.”
“It might at that.” Sumner drew a watch from his vest pocket and popped the lid. “You’ll have to excuse me. All this accommodation has me late for my next appointment.”
“Talk to your colleagues, Charles. I’ll wait to hear from you.” Popular sovereignty—perfectly reasonable.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
Hudson, Ohio
March, 1854
Lean and gnarled as an old hickory, John Brown sat hunched over the kitchen table reading by lamp light. The House of Representatives passed the Senate’s Kansas-Nebraska Act. The Cleveland Plain Dealer editorial expected President Pierce would sign it into law by
the end of the week. The editor sounded a cautionary note. Repealing the Missouri Compromise ceded the slavery issue to the sovereignty of the subject territories. The sovereignty issue would first be tested in Kansas. The editorial pointed to pro-slavery sentiments in neighboring Missouri and the potential for both sides of the issue to be represented in territorial elections. Brown smelled a fight, a fight that must be won.
He held deeply religious convictions against the practice of slavery. He’d taken a vow to see it abolished, by violent means if necessary. Increasingly, it appeared violence would be needed. He couldn’t foresee the time or the place that might be decisive, but he had a strong feeling the next skirmish must take place in the west. He felt honor bound to rise up in opposition to any attempt to advance the sinful practice beyond its current borders. Contain it first—his dark eyes flashed in the lamplight—then crush it. That would be his message to the congregation come Sunday. He would testify to his conviction. He and his sons would rise up to lead a righteous opposition. They would embark on a sacred mission—a crusade west to weed out Satan’s work before it could take root in new soil.
Harness chain jangle and wagon wheel creak broke his reverie. Brown set the paper aside, picked up the table lamp, and stepped into the cool spring evening. The horse-drawn wagon disappeared into the barn. He crossed the yard to the barn as his eldest son, Salmon, stepped down from the wagon box. A strapping lad, taller and heavier than his patriarch, he wore a slouch hat over shoulder-length hair, a homespun shirt, and overalls.
“Any trouble?” the elder Brown said.
Salmon shook his head. He pulled back the canvas covering the bed of the wagon. Three pair of wide eyes stared up from the shadows, their anxious faces reflecting the lamplight.
“Welcome. My name is John Brown. You’re safe here.” He turned to his son. “Have they had anything to eat?”
“Not since morning.”
“Make them comfortable in the shed. I’ll send Mary Ann with victuals. Come, please.”