During that past week, the coffeehouse had offered him something like a refuge—from Elizabeth, from Dovehouse, and from all other pressures. But it was an escape in name only, for his troubles followed him there. A short walk down Pinckney Street to Charles, and then left toward the Commons. He could escape from the house’s shadow, but not from what it knew.
But why had these specters pursued him? Why so viciously? And why now? He needed to run from them … deny them the places they demanded. They could not chase him forever, even if they did know his secret.
His secret.
That was what stood at the center of it all. The secret that he had been laboring to suppress for an eternity. It was the secret that no one else but Elizabeth knew. It was the secret that would one day condemn him.
How had it come about? Had there been another way out for him? And would anyone ever have forgiven him for such a failing?
There were no answers, but if there had been, they might have been found on that night, that sweltering night back in August of 1850. The night before the momentous vote. He had been the senator from Massachusetts for only one month, having replaced Daniel Webster, who had become Secretary of State. Back then Webster, with Henry Clay, all but commanded the direction of the Whigs—the party that was becoming increasingly divided along sectional lines. Garrett was thirty-nine years old—handsome, newly married, and with a new baby at home in Boston. During those days of mounting polarization, people considered Garrett a moderate—though that too was fated to change.
The young senator had been reading by candlelight in his Washington boardinghouse when the quiet knock sounded upon the door.
“Mr. Webster!” Garrett exclaimed. “To what do I owe this honor?”
For it was indeed the old statesman himself, come to see Garrett in his quarters.
“My apologies for disturbing you at this hour,” Webster replied, “but we beg your audience for a matter of urgent business.”
Webster stepped into the room, joined by two other elder delegates—Senator Underwood from Kentucky and Congressman Phoenix from New York. The three men shook hands with the young James Garrett, their faces all lined with severity.
“It is urgent business, and it is unpleasant business,” Webster said, “and I am afraid we have run out of time.”
The old Whigs seated themselves around Garrett’s table. Their presence brought a heaviness to the room.
“Tomorrow, as you know,” Webster said, “is the vote on the Fugitive Bill.”
Garrett nodded.
“And we have come to ask you—no, we have come to entreat you—to refrain from casting your vote.”
Garrett was confused.
“Refrain from casting my vote?” he said.
“The Democrats have failed to secure Wisconsin,” Senator Underwood said. “Both Walker and Dodge will be voting against the bill.”
“And we do not yet know,” Congressman Phoenix added, “which way Indiana will go.”
“The bill must pass,” Webster said.
“The bill must pass,” Underwood repeated.
And all three of them glowered at Garrett.
The Fugitive Bill—perhaps the most controversial component of the recent compromises to save the Union. It would oblige federal officials—even in northern states—to capture and return runaways to their former masters in the South. It would legalize the conscription of northern citizens in an attempt to fulfill “the prompt and efficient execution of this law.” The people of the North would be forced to betray runaways, or face outrageous fines and imprisonment.
“Secretary Webster—” Garrett began.
“I know it is no small thing to ask,” Webster said. “But California depends on it, and you know this.”
“California must be admitted as a free state,” Garrett said. “The issue is non-negotiable.”
“We are all in agreement about that,” Underwood said. “But the South is loath to permit it. They would much prefer two states—one north, one south—and some of them are still arguing for that. The only way to secure all of California as a free state is to give them the Fugitive Bill. They will find a way to block us, if we don’t.”
The Senate had approved California as a free state only ten days before, and the bill would now go before the House of Representatives. The vote had been 34 to 18, with nearly every southern Democrat opposing.
“We cannot lose California,” Webster said. “We’ve simply come too far.”
“But we have won it,” Garrett said. “The bill is certain to pass the House. The southern representatives do not have the numbers to defeat the bill.”
“But if for any reason we should upset the northern Democrats,” Webster replied, “there is no telling how the votes may go.”
The old statesman’s brow sagged remorselessly over his eyes.
“And they are expecting us to deliver the bill,” he said.
It was an awful and complicated situation that had been forced upon the Congress. Neither Whigs nor Democrats—northerners nor southerners—could achieve what they wanted without help from the other side.
“The balance is precarious,” Phoenix said. “And we need you to abstain. If you don’t, and the Fugitive Bill is defeated, the consequences could be dire.”
“Consequences!” Garrett exclaimed. “And what of the consequences for the northern people? Am I to stand by as this country adopts a law that would compel any citizen of Boston—or Philadelphia, or New York, or any other city for that matter—to aid in the capture of runaways, and return them to bondage? Is the South to trample over our liberties so easily?”
It was an impassioned reaction—one of his first amongst colleagues.
“Seward will be abstaining,” Phoenix said.
“And Phelps.”
“And there are others.”
Garrett looked from one old face to the next. The eyes were dark, sunk deep into their sockets.
Then Webster spoke:
“If you are worried about ramifications, we can assure you that there will be no retaliation from within the party as a result of your action.”
“Inaction,” Garrett corrected.
The old man nodded his head.
“The members of the party would consider it a great service.”
“But the people—” Garrett protested.
“The people do not elect you,” Webster said. “You are appointed by the state legislature. And should you do as we are asking, your associates would be—most grateful.”
“We are not asking you to cast an ‘aye,’” Underwood said, “only to abstain. It is likely something people will forget.”
The men left Garrett’s room that night with little ceremony, as if all were trying to forget the meeting before it had even concluded. California had been admitted as a free state by the Senate, and an overwhelming northern majority in the House assured the California bill’s success there too.
But did it?
The balance had to be kept, and the Whigs needed Garrett—so much so that they had sent Webster himself to ask the favor. But would the young senator follow his conscience, and vote for what the people of Massachusetts believed in? Or would he curse himself to remember his first term in Congress as one of betrayal and pyrrhic victory?
The next day, when the Fugitive Bill arrived for a vote on the Senate floor, the young senator from Massachusetts was nowhere to be found.
IT WAS NOT until years later—six to be exact—that Senator Garrett felt that he had atoned for his sin. The Republicans had formed as a party in the wake of the Kansas-Nebraska Act, and Garrett had gone over to them, and wholeheartedly embraced their principles. It was also around that time when the northern papers were reprinting his “Rape of Kansas” speech, as if his diatribe against the South were the only thing anyone wanted to read.
But it was not his speech. And that was Garrett’s secret.
“The damned planters,” Garrett had said to Elizabeth. “They are flooding into the
territory from Missouri. The fate of Kansas will be determined by its people, and those vile invaders are trying to steal the vote.”
“Yes, James,” Elizabeth replied, “I have read of the crimes. The South is determined to block the entry of Kansas as a free state … at any cost, it seems.”
“It is an outrage,” Garrett thundered. “An outrage! They crawl like locusts over this free land, bringing with them their negroes. It is an outrage against God. It is an outrage against the people of this nation. I will not stand by and watch it. These criminals must be cast out!”
Elizabeth watched her husband pace about the room. His alignment with the abolitionists had steadily grown over the past few years.
“The violence,” Elizabeth said. “I fear for every poor soul who lives there.”
“But there are holy souls there, and unholy souls,” Garrett said. “The damned southerners are the instruments of the devil.”
There he stood—the young senator, but somewhat older now—his stiff white collar and thick cravat forming a pedestal for his handsome face. Strangely, Garrett became even more captivating when he was enraged. He was already not the same man she had married.
“James,” she said, “there is something to consider—”
But Garrett was too angry.
“There is nothing to consider but their expulsion from the territory! I will write a speech at once that exposes them for the criminals they are. By God, I will not see their fraudulent votes recognized. Free labor will triumph in Kansas, or the soul of this country will be lost.”
He left her then, and disappeared for the rest of the evening. He would take the Senate floor and denounce the southern parasites. “Against this territory, thus fortunate in position and population,” he wrote, “an invasion has been launched which is without example in the past. Not in the plundered provinces of old, or in the cruelties of selfish rulers, will you find a parallel to the outrage that has been committed against Kansas. The South and its minions have openly polluted a free territory, with the desire of turning the state into another one of its hideous offspring.” It was powerful rhetoric that would rouse even the most moderate of his colleagues … the voice the abolitionists would praise from Iowa to Maine.
At the heart of the speech was the idea of invasion—the theme that unified it in its relentless condemnation of the South. But when Elizabeth read Garrett’s draft, early the next morning, she saw something entirely different. She saw a missed opportunity—a chance to excoriate the South for what it really was—as well as the prospect of creating an even greater alliance between her husband and the abolitionists. Oh yes … the truth was already there, hiding in Garrett’s scribbles. It just needed to be acknowledged and brought up to the surface.
“James,” she said. “You must go another way. You must make the attack personal, and call out the crime for what it is.”
Garrett appeared disappointed.
“I have called out the crime, Elizabeth.”
“No,” Elizabeth responded. “I don’t mean the crime that is taking place in Kansas. I mean the crime that is at the core of their entire society.”
She took up a pencil and began marking the papers. For nearly an hour he watched, frozen, as she edited his words. She had of course done similar revisions for him in the past, but never with such conviction. Garrett was not worried about the number of changes she would suggest—it was the degree of the changes that worried him.
When she was finished, she set the pencil down upon the table. Her face was an image of sorrow. It was an image that still appeared, though less and less frequently. William Jeffrey had been dead for four years.
Garrett lifted the papers, and read over the new words. She had done it. She had transformed his speech about territory and sectional conflict into a condemnation of the South’s most hideous “secret.” Everywhere now, his references to violating the Kansas Territory took on double meanings that would inflame his southern colleagues and make virtuous women blush.
“Elizabeth—” he said.
But Elizabeth raised her hand.
“It is not an invasion of Kansas,” she said.
She stared at him.
“It is a rape.”
XXIX
GARRETT WAS STILL gazing through his reflection in the window when Dovehouse entered the coffeehouse.
“Looking for something, old boy?” Dovehouse said.
Garrett, startled, turned from the window. He had not seen his old friend come in.
Dovehouse sat down in an empty chair at Garrett’s table.
“I have just come from the house,” he said. “Elizabeth said I might find you here. We had a charming conversation.”
Garrett returned his attention to his reflection.
“James,” Dovehouse said. “I am worried about you.”
Garrett blinked and looked at him.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes what?” Dovehouse said. “You are not yourself these days. Your mind is distracted—somewhere else. And I have noticed your shortness of breath.”
“I know, Benjamin,” Garrett said. “I know.”
Dovehouse raised his hand and snapped a finger in front of Garrett.
“What is it with you, man? Where is your mind wondering off to?”
Garrett remained silent, and neither of them spoke for some time. Then Dovehouse said:
“It’s the photograph, isn’t it?”
The photograph, Garrett thought. He could see the image in front of him.
“It is indeed the photograph,” Garrett replied. “It is everything. The photograph has resurrected everything.”
Dovehouse respectfully bowed his head.
“It was long ago, James … it was a long time ago.”
“I thought I would be able to forget,” Garrett said.
In that moment Garrett considered revealing the truth—about what was on the negative, and about what he had been remembering. Dovehouse, after all, had been his friend for forty years. He had been there throughout everything … through the first days of Garrett’s career, through the difficult debates of the fifties, through William Jeffrey’s passing, even through—
“I am remembering—” Garrett said.
Dovehouse leaned in closer.
“I am remembering my first days in Congress. That impossible time … and how I failed.”
“For God’s sake, Garrett!” Dovehouse stormed. “Not the California bill again! I know that it is your chief regret, but really, it was twenty years ago.”
“I failed,” Garrett said. “I failed her.”
“Failed who?” Dovehouse said. “Elizabeth?”
“She was the only one who would have stood by my decision.”
“And seen California lost?” Dovehouse said. “I find that hard to believe.”
“It was all lost,” Garrett said. “Everything was lost.”
Dovehouse shifted in his seat. He was becoming impatient again.
“Garrett, look at me,” he said. “This will not do. Everything is said and done, and the prosperity of the future lies before us. Your melancholy is quite uncalled for. It is time for you to forget, and move on.”
But now Dovehouse was asking for something more horrible. He wanted Garrett to commit an even greater sin.
“I will never forget!” Garrett said, striking the table.
“Old boy,” Dovehouse said, “there are some things you’d do better to forget. Sometimes the greater the injustice, the greater the need to bury it.”
Garrett bit down hard.
“I will not bury it,” he said. “We have been committing crimes against the people of this country for over two centuries. It is time that we take responsibility for our sins.”
“The people of this country?” Dovehouse said. “Sins? Against the negroes? By God, Garrett, when are you going to stop being such a damned fool? We may have majorities in Congress right now, and you may be able to push your laws through … but for heaven’s sake, you above
all people must realize that this is a moment in time, and things will turn again.”
“We must see that that does not happen.”
“It will happen!” Dovehouse fumed. “It is only natural that it should happen!”
Yes, the old ghosts. Dovehouse would never let them speak.
“You’ve accomplished your task,” Dovehouse said. “The war is over—and free labor is the law of the land. But it’s a different world entirely down there, and they are determined to destroy anything you try to accomplish. You ask too much. It has always been your greatest strength, but also your greatest weakness.”
“Damn you,” Garrett said. “Damn all of you.”
Dovehouse’s cheek twitched before the calm came over his face.
“There will never be racial equality in this country. The sooner you and the rest of your radical cronies realize that, the sooner we can all move on.”
How had it come to this? How had a forty-year friendship, full of grand and healthy debate, reached such an impasse, so late in its life? How had Garrett and the man who knew nearly everything about him grown so far apart in such a short time? Perhaps it had not been such a short time at all, but a long time—like his marriage. While Garrett had spent the past decades advancing his career, the things most personal to him had been slowly disintegrating before his eyes.
A moment of silence followed Dovehouse’s remark, and both men glared at each other without moving. Then Dovehouse pushed his chair out and stood up like a marble soldier.
“Good day, old boy,” he said, and left.
XXX
FATHER THOMAS HAD informed Moody and Joseph that the house still stood—just southeast of Chalmette, before the river made its great bend. The Yankees had spared the house, Father Thomas told them, not because of its greatness, but because of its strategic position on the water. That fantastical estate—a legend especially amongst those who had never seen it—had been the grandest and the most profitable of all the downriver plantations. Now though, its silence only served as a reminder of all that had been despised, and everything that had been lost.
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