“And what would a Negro do with freedom, if he received it?” asked Morris Goodfellow, a wealthy merchant who also fancied himself a scientist. “It’s an established fact that Negroes lack the intellectual wherewithal to achieve any status above that of a simple laborer. Recently, I have read a scientific article that proves that Negroes are clearly less than fully human. You must only regard the features of the typical Negro’s face to see the truth of this conclusion.”
Goodfellow pointed at Roxanne but addressed his host. “May I, Caleb?”
“Certainly. Roxanne, go to Mr. Goodfellow.”
Roxanne cast down her eyes and walked over to the merchant, who began pointing at several of her facial features.
“Notice her zygomatic muscles are large and full. Now, this is important because—as Lavater points out—these muscles are always in action during laughter, and the extreme enlargement of them causes a low mind. Too, the Negress’s jaw is large and projecting, her chin retreating, her forehead low, flat, and slanting; as a consequence, her eyeballs are very prominent and larger than those of a white man. All of these peculiarities contribute to the reduction of her facial angle almost to the level of a brute.”
“I’m not certain I understand you,” said W. B. Thornton, the Multnomah County district attorney, who was muddle-headed under normal circumstances and had decreased his level of comprehension further this evening by imbibing more liquor than he should have.
“Ah, but the implications are clear,” Goodfellow replied. “Even the ancients were fully aware of this kind of mutual coincidence between the facial angle and the powers of the mind; consequently, in their statues of heroes and philosophers they usually extended the angle to ninety degrees, making that of the gods to be one hundred, beyond which it cannot be enlarged without deformity. Modern anatomists have fixed the average facial angle of the European at eighty, the Negro at seventy and orangutans at fifty-eight. All brutes are below seventy, with quadrupeds being about twenty.”
“Are you done with Roxanne?” Barbour asked Goodfellow.
“Quite,” Goodfellow answered with mild surprise, since he had forgotten that the girl was standing obediently in front of him.
“You may go,” Barbour said. Roxanne left the room but stood quietly behind the closed door to the parlor so she could hear her master speak.
“I have to concur with Morris,” Caleb Barbour said as soon as his servant was out of the room. The assemblage listened intently, as they usually deferred to his opinions on matters of the Negro because of his greater knowledge of them as a former slave owner. “I was in Atlanta when a traveling carnival came to town. One of the exhibits was an ape from Africa. The similarities between the ape and my Negroes were astonishing. Now, I am no scientist, so this is simply my uneducated opinion, but based on my observations, I would not disagree with a scientific paper that concluded that the Negro is somewhere between the ape and the white man and not quite a human being.”
“AM I A HUMAN BEING?” Roxanne Brown asked herself later that night as she lay in her room in the rear of Caleb Barbour’s house. Aside from her narrow bed, the only furnishings were a rickety wooden chair and a small chest of drawers. The tiny, windowless space had originally been a storeroom, and it was stiflingly hot because of the lack of ventilation. Roxanne would have gone out onto the porch if she could, but ever since Barbour and her father had quarreled, Mr. Barbour had taken to locking her in at night for fear that she would run away.
Mr. Barbour had given Roxanne a candle. Her room was pitch-black when she extinguished it. The darkness did not cool the room, but it was conducive to thought, and tonight she was thinking about what Mr. Barbour and his guests had said about her people and apes. Roxanne did not know what an ape was, but she suspected it was some kind of animal that resembled a Negro. Animals were less than human, and Mr. Goodfellow seemed to think that the way her face slanted indicated a closer relationship to the brute than the human. In her experience, most Negroes were treated more like animals than humans, but her father had assured her that the only difference between Negroes and whites was the color of their skin. He had seen the skeletons of dead white men and dead Negroes and the insides of injured white men and Negroes, and he had told her that there was no difference between the bones and guts of the races that he could see.
Was it the thoughts of white people and Negroes that made them different, then? Did white people have bigger thoughts? Whites had written all of the books she’d read in secret, and she knew of none that had been written by her own people. Was the capacity of blacks to think on things smaller? If so, how was she able to understand what she heard and read? It was all very confusing.
Roxanne would have liked to have some books around that could answer her questions, but, unlike Mrs. Barbour, her master had no use for books and preferred to spend his free time gambling, hunting, and drinking. Roxanne’s opportunities to read were limited to the rare newspaper that found its way into Mr. Barbour’s house.
There were some lawbooks in the house, and one other type of book that Barbour kept under lock and key in a cabinet in his bedroom. On one occasion, Roxanne had found the cabinet unlocked and had looked inside. At first, she had been excited to discover a cache of books, but her excitement had turned to unease when she saw that the books contained illustrations of men and women engaged in activities that she had seen practiced in the dark in the slave quarters of Barbour’s plantation before she’d been moved to the house. Some of the activities also reminded her of the goings-on of barnyard animals.
Roxanne’s perusal of these pictures had aroused her. She found these new feelings confusing and frightening. Did looking at the illustrations arouse similar stirrings in Mr. Barbour? Since her breasts had begun to grow and her body had started to change shape, there had been times when her master had looked at her strangely. On one occasion, Mr. Barbour had surprised her while she was bathing and had stood overly long at the door, eyeing her queerly. On another occasion, she had turned suddenly before leaving the parlor and had caught Barbour staring at her, then flushing red and glancing away quickly. There was something unhealthy in the way he looked at her.
Roxanne shifted in the heat. Remembering the illustrations made her start to feel the way she felt while looking at them in Mr. Barbour’s bedroom. Her hand strayed between her legs, and her fingertips touched her thigh. A current shot through her body, and she moaned. It was an animal moan, and it made her think again of what Mr. Goodfellow had said. Was it true? Was she somehow closer to the animal than the human? Did these feelings prove Goodfellow’s point? Roxanne closed her eyes and fought the urge to let her fingers creep upward. She was not an animal; she was a human being, no matter what Caleb Barbour might think.
CHAPTER 11
Milling crowds stirred the dust on the sun-baked streets of Portland into a swirling brown cloud that drifted upward toward the red, white, and blue banner that stretched across First Street. Matthew pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to keep from choking as he hurried along the plank sidewalk toward the waterfront and the strains of a rousing march. Most of the cheering throng was massed along the wharves, but some young men had climbed to the rooftops to get a better view. Sailing vessels, their masts furled, and steamers, their whistles blasting and their smokestacks ejecting plumes of smoke, jammed the Willamette River. At the center of this furor was the steamer Pacific, upon whose deck stood the Oregon Pony.
Matthew crossed the street, dodging a wagon and almost tripping over one of the gnarled and blackened stumps that were still in the ground years after Portland’s founding. Then the city had been known as Little Stump Town, and its single street ran from forest to forest, unpaved and ungraded, with potholes deep enough to drown a good-size child during the long rainy season, and only trails made by woodsmen leading through the stumps and logs out into the forest. No one called the city Little Stump Town anymore. This thriving waterfront community was the sea
t of the newly created Multnomah County and the center of everything moving up and down the Willamette and Columbia Rivers, which met at the town. Coastal steamers docked near Stewart’s Willamette Theater, which had been built exclusively for dramatic productions. There were three daily papers delivered to subscribers for twenty-five cents a week. In addition to livery stables, a public school, saloons, butcher shops, and grocery stores, the town boasted a bookstore, a private academy, a candy factory, and other establishments one expected to find in an up-and-coming metropolis. Today, most of these businesses were closed to celebrate the arrival of the Oregon Pony.
A grandstand decked out in patriotic bunting had been constructed opposite the spot on the river where the Pacific was docked. Seated in the stands were several dignitaries, including Benjamin Gillette, who was the president of the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company; Multnomah County district attorney W. B. Thornton, who was heavily invested in the company; and Jedidiah Tyler. Matthew found a place on the edge of the crowd as the mayor concluded a long-winded introduction of Joe Lane, the former United States senator from Oregon.
The Democrats had held their presidential nominating convention in Charleston, South Carolina, a month before the Republicans nominated Abraham Lincoln in Chicago. The delegations of eight cotton states withdrew after the convention rejected a plank that would have guaranteed slavery in the territories. Without these delegates no candidate was able to win the two-thirds majority required for the party’s nomination, so the convention adjourned to Baltimore and chose the fiery orator Stephen A. Douglas as the official nominee of the Democratic Party. The seceders held a rival convention, nominating James Buchanan’s vice president, John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky, as its presidential candidate and Joe Lane as his running mate.
A great cheer erupted from the crowd when Lane was introduced. He smiled and waved. There was another blast of steamer whistles and a flourish from the band.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is an historic day for Oregon, the West, and our nation,” Lane shouted when relative quiet returned. “In this, our second year of statehood, we are about to witness a first—the Oregon Pony! This steam locomotive, built by the Vulcan Iron Works in San Francisco, is the first ever constructed on the Pacific Coast, and it will be the first to run in our state. But,” Lane said, pausing for effect, “I promise you it will not be the last.”
Lane waited for the shouts and applause to die down. Then he pointed to the occupants of the viewing stand.
“Three years ago, the farsighted men sitting on this platform conceived the idea of building a railroad in this state. Someday soon, the Oregon Pony will run on tracks that will eventually stretch to the Atlantic Ocean. Today, we take the first step in fulfilling that dream.”
Hats flew in the air, the band blared, and the crowd cheered as the transfer of the locomotive from the deck of the Pacific to the dock began. People started moving from the grandstand to the spot where District Attorney Thornton’s portly wife, Abigail, would christen the Oregon Pony. After the christening, Lane, Thornton, and Gillette planned to ride in the cab with an engineer down a short stretch of specially laid track to the railroad bridge that was being built across the Willamette. After the ceremony, the locomotive would be ferried across to the other side of the river where they were laying the line.
As the crowd swept Matthew toward the Pony, he spotted a young man with a slight build who stood five feet seven inches above the ground and sported bright red hair that contrasted sharply with his pale, freckled skin. At twenty-two, Orville Mason was Oregon’s youngest attorney. He had been given an eastern education by his father, the Reverend Ezekiel Mason, and his Harvard law degree made him an oddity in a state where most attorneys read law while serving as an apprentice to a member of the bar, and the only requirements for practicing law were a high school education, the ability to pass the supreme court’s test of knowledge, and membership in the male sex.
An outspoken supporter of Abraham Lincoln, Orville had been a delegate to the nominating convention of the six-year-old Republican Party and was gaining notoriety in politics. Recently, he had been instrumental in destroying Joe Lane’s presidential aspirations.
Early in the year, many had seen Lane, a Northern man with Southern principles, as the only candidate who could unite the Democratic Party, but a combination of Douglas Democrats and Republicans in the Oregon legislature had thwarted Lane’s bid to be reelected to the United States Senate. Orville Mason had worked hard behind the scenes to bring about Lane’s defeat, which had destroyed his viability as a presidential candidate. But his vice-presidential candidacy as a pro-slavery Democrat worried Oregon Republicans, who knew Lane had many supporters in his home state.
Some of the people standing next to Orville stepped aside, and Matthew noticed that Mason was talking to a young woman. He cut through the crowd to his friend’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I never thought I’d catch you within a mile of Senator Lane,” Matthew said.
“Joe’s not so bad. It’s his politics that stink. Besides, I’m not here to listen to that windbag. I’m here to witness the end of civilization.”
“You have no sense of history, Orville,” said the young woman, who Matthew guessed to be about eighteen. She was slender and dressed in a sky-blue frock outlined by white lace that tucked in to highlight her narrow waist. Above the waist, the material billowed out, hinting at the full breasts concealed by the soft fabric. A white bonnet decorated with yellow flowers covered her golden hair.
“It’s not history I’m worried about,” Orville joshed. “Those metal monsters belch black smoke that darkens the countryside and ruins every fabric on which it alights. I have also heard that they travel at speeds so great the passengers risk heart failure.”
The attractive young woman was so serious about the subject of locomotion that she did not realize that Orville was teasing her.
“The smoke is true enough,” she said, “but you simply shut your window. And I can assure you that no medical problem is presented by the speed. In fact, it is their speed that recommends them as a means of transportation. Think of how quickly you’ll be able to get to Washington when Mr. Lincoln appoints you to the United States Supreme Court.”
“I shall take a slow boat on that day, and live to serve my country.”
The woman turned to Matthew. “I hope you’re not as narrow-minded as Mr. Mason, Mr. . . . ?”
“Pardon me,” Orville said. “I assumed you knew each other. Heather, allow me to present my good friend and fellow attorney, Matthew Penny. Matthew, this is Heather Gillette.”
Before Matthew could respond, Francis Gibney materialized out of the crowd. “Miss Gillette, your father wants you to join him at the christening.”
“You two must accompany me,” Heather said, hooking Orville’s arm with her right and Matthew’s with her left. Before Matthew could say anything, she was steering them along the path Francis Gibney was clearing.
THE OREGON PONY was stenciled in grand gold letters on the shiny black carapace of Oregon’s first locomotive. Miniature American flags decorated the cowcatcher. In the cab, waiting for Abigail Thornton to christen the Pony, was Joshua Coffee, an engineer sent from San Francisco to train an Oregonian in the secrets of locomotion. Mr. Coffee had tried to talk the well-dressed gentlemen out of their planned ride to the railroad bridge, but they would hear none of it.
“I was afraid you’d miss the ceremony,” Benjamin Gillette said to his daughter. Then he spotted Matthew. “Glad to see you again, Penny. Will you be at the reception?”
Before Matthew could answer they were interrupted by the sound of a champagne bottle shattering, an explosion of cheers, and the shrill of steamer whistles.
“See you tonight,” Benjamin said as Thornton and Lane dragged him toward the tender. Heather followed her father. Matthew held back for a moment.
“What reception
is Gillette talking about?” he asked Orville.
“It’s at his mansion. They’re celebrating the off-loading of the Pony. Are you a friend of Ben’s?”
“No, an adversary, actually. I won a lawsuit against him in Phoenix a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, the infamous duel.”
Matthew blushed. “That’s been greatly exaggerated.”
“Well, you must have made an impression on Gillette if you whipped him and he’s still inviting you.”
“How do you know Gillette’s daughter?” Matthew asked, regretting the question as soon as he’d asked it. Rachel had been dead little more than two years, and he castigated himself for having an interest in any woman.
“The Gillettes attend my father’s church. Heather just returned from Boston, where she finished her schooling. She was bringing me up to date on my old stomping ground when our debate over the merits of locomotion sidetracked us.”
Lane, Thornton, and Gillette climbed into the tender just as Matthew and Orville reached the spot where Heather was standing. Gillette waved at his daughter, and she waved back. Then Mr. Coffee blew the whistle, and the crowd went wild as the locomotive started chugging slowly down the track. The crowd flowed along, shouting encouragement. Heather laughed and cheered like everyone else. The mood was contagious, and Matthew found himself joining in the revelry.
All went well for the first quarter mile. Then, without warning, the engine started spitting water and smoke out of her stack in a regular stream. Dirty water and cinders rained down on the occupants of the tender. Gillette, the district attorney, and Senator Lane tried to duck, but there was no place to hide in the cab. By the time they arrived at the end of the line, their white shirts were black and soggy and their beaming faces were streaked with grime.
“I do believe they’re the dirtiest bunch I’ve ever seen,” shouted Heather, who was laughing so hard she could not stand up straight.
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