“Who’s there?” Mrs. Lovejoy yelled out in a shrill voice.
“We want to see Mr. Lovejoy. Is he in?” came the gruff reply.
“Yes, I am here,” Elijah shouted as he rocked out of his chair and cast a darting glance at the clock.
The noise of the unlocked door creaking open alarmed them. Then the footsteps of two men marching upstairs broke the silence. The men barged into the room where Elijah stood, grabbed him, and tried to pull him downstairs. When he resisted, they beat him with their fists. He was dragged down to the front porch where a mob of angry men awaited. Was this the prelude to being tar and feathered?
Fists began to strike him as a throng of people cheered on. Mrs. Lovejoy soon joined the fracas and tried to force her way through the crowd, but was rudely pushed back. One man pulled a knife, at which point Celia Ann struck him in the face and proceeded on to find Elijah, wrapping her arms around him with a protective hug. Elijah’s fear was momentarily replaced by one of amazement and pride in her fortitude. As attackers cursed, she continued to fend off the “mobites,” as they were called, with strikes to their faces.
“You must take me before you take my husband,” she proclaimed. Her unfailing devotion would leave more of a mark on Elijah than his beatings.
Eventually, their efforts, aided by her mother and sister, caused the mobites to give up and depart. Physically and emotionally exhausted, Mrs. Lovejoy fainted. When she recovered, Elijah brought her to a bedroom upstairs, where she lay distraught, often crying out hysterically.
“I’m very alarmed over her condition,” Elijah confided to her mother, “especially since she’s several months along with our precious second child. Not to mention what sick little Edward has had to go through.” With a grimace, he tried to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck.
But the mob returned a second time and marched back upstairs to the bedroom. Oblivious to Mrs. Lovejoy’s fragile condition, they lurched out to seize Elijah again.
“You must stop this ungodly work of the devil!” Rev. Campbell boldly asserted. “You cannot go to church one day, and then do the likes of this. Jesus must be weeping in heaven.” His words did manage to calm them and convince them to leave.
Rev. Campbell’s efforts were short-lived, however, as the mob returned a third time. On this occasion, Mr. Lovejoy felt he had no other choice but to negotiate.
“I will provide you,” he said, “a written, signed letter stating I will leave Missouri and return to Illinois.” His promise appeased the mobites for the night.
Early in the morning, before the sun had risen, Elijah snuck out of the St. Charles house and returned to Alton. Upon arrival, he was alarmed to run into a man who claimed, “I helped destroy your press in Alton.” Alerting his friends of ongoing danger even in Alton, Mr. Lovejoy was able to round up about ten armed people to help safeguard his house.
* * * * *
Brady stood with Charlotte in the store perusing books on a shelf.
“Isn’t it amazing that books are now becoming more available to us?” she commented.
“Yeah, publishing has really improved over the last few years. Why, I’ve heard there’s actually something such as a cookbook.”
“Really?”
“Wouldn’t you know, here is one.” He pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to her.
”Say,” he resumed, “didn’t you mention your mother has a birthday coming up?”
“Yes, October 27. I’m looking forward to it. She always likes to celebrate in some small way.”
“I’d like to buy her a gift, and I was thinking of a book.” He leaned in toward Charlotte with a smile.
“Brady, it’s sweet that you want to buy her something, but a book may not be the best thing.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Don’t you know, Mama can’t read.”
“Oh, I know. But you’ve got to start somewhere. With a simple book of recipes, we could teach her all about the important words.” He grabbed the cookbook from her hands and began to flip through it.
“What do you mean by important words? You mean like sugar?” She released a smattering of a laugh.
“Exactly! I’m glad you mentioned the most important one.”
“I think you might have some other motives in mind. Could it be you’re looking for a change from chitlins and collard greens?” Her probing eyes left him a bit ill at ease—kind of like how he felt the day he had such a dinner over at her mama’s house.
“All right, you know me all too well.” He flipped through more pages to peruse the book in his hand. “This looks pretty simple. Looks like it has some tasty dishes in it.”
“OK . . . maybe.” She paused as she tilted her head to scan the shelf. “Say, I see one here that might interest you.” She snatched Explorers of the Mississippi River and handed it to him.
“Hey,” his voice rose, “I’ll have to take a gander at this one.” He flipped through a few pages. “Interesting. I’d like to look at this a bit longer. Why don’t you go buy the recipe book, and I’ll be along in a bit. But I insist on paying for it, so here’s some money.” He handed over some coins.
A few minutes later, concluding the river book was too expensive, Brady headed to the front of the store. Charlotte was standing there with the recipe book still in her hand.
“The other book was too much for too little new information. I already know a lot about it.” The book and coins still in her hand caught his eye. “So why haven’t you paid for that one yet?”
“Well, I tried to get the lady’s attention, but she’s been ignoring me.”
“Can I help you, sir?” The older lady looked up over the rim of her thick glasses.
“Well, this young lady has been waiting here ahead of me,” Brady said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, I figured she wouldn’t have the money.” The lady’s forced smile seemed more of a smirk.
“Well then, we would like to buy this book she’s been holding. She’s got the money right here in her hands.”
“We?” The lady fumbled the money as Charlotte handed it to her.
“Yes, we’re buying this together.” Brady put his arm around Charlotte’s shoulder.
“Together? You two are together? Landsakes. I’ve seen everything.” Her head kept shaking back and forth even as she handed back change. Brady reckoned it didn’t stop until she lay her head on the pillow that night.
* * * * *
Earlier in the summer, Mr. Lovejoy had put out notice that he was planning a statewide antislavery convention to be held in Alton late in October.
Some of his friends thought he should be more inclusive of other viewpoints so a compromise of sorts could be thoroughly discussed and recommended. The concept of freedom of the press should be stressed, they said, and colonization might still be a possibility.
“Keep your interruptions to a minimum today,” Mr. Lovejoy said as he came bouncing into the office this late-October morning. “I’ve got to concentrate on writing my speech for the convention.”
Brady looked over at Charlotte with a knowing smile.
“That’s fine,” he said. “We’re busy too. I’ve been working on the details of getting another press here by the end of October.”
“I appreciate your running with that project for me and sending out the appropriate letters.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a purchase agreement going to the printing press company and a letter to law enforcement folks in Cincinnati. We’re asking the price of sending an actual lawman to accompany the press.”
“What about space in Winthrop Gillman’s warehouse? He told me earlier he would help us.”
“I’ve got him to confirm he’d provide space to store the press when it comes. This time it will be way up on the third floor—should be safe there.”
“I would think so.” Mr. Lovejoy rubbed his furrowed foreh
ead.
Hours later, Mr. Lovejoy came out of the office, paper in hand.
“I want to run some of what I’ve written by you both. You know how, after all these years, I value your opinions. Let me know what you think.” He handed the papers to Brady.
Brady read down the page of the speech directed to the chairman of the convention. Certain paragraphs stood out to him. He shook his head in amazement. “I’ve got to read some of these paragraphs out loud to you, Char.” He cleared his throat and began:
“I know that I have the right freely to speak and publish my sentiments. This right was given me by my Maker, and is solemnly guaranteed to me by the Constitution of the United States and of this state. What I wish to know of you is whether you will protect me in the exercise of this right, or whether I am to continue to be subjected to personal indignity and outrage.”
Brady released an appreciative sigh and continued reading select parts out loud:
My rights have been shamefully, wickedly outraged; this I know and feel, and can never forget. But I can and do freely forgive those who have done it. . . . God in his providence—so say all my brethren, and so I think—has devolved upon me the responsibility of maintaining my ground here; and I am determined to do it. . . . A voice comes to me . . . calling upon me in the name of all that is dear in heaven or earth, to stand fast; and by the help of God, I will stand. . . . Sir, the very act of retreating will embolden the mob to follow me wherever I go. No sir, there is no way to escape the mob, but to abandon the path of duty. And that, God helping me, I will never do. . . . I appeal to every individual present. Whom of you have I injured? If any, let him rise here and testify against me. . . . And now you come together for the purpose of driving out a confessedly innocent man, for no cause but that he dares to think and speak as his conscience and his God dictate. Will conduct like this stand the scrutiny of your country? Of posterity? . . . Yet think not that I am unhappy. Think not that I regret the choice that I have made. While all around me is violence and tumult, all is peace within. . . . The rewarding smile of God is full recompense for all I forgo and all that I endure. Yes sir, I enjoy a peace which nothing can destroy. . . . I am commanded to forsake father and mother and wife and children for Jesus’ sake, and as his professed disciple, I stand prepared to do it. . . . Before God and you all, I here pledge myself to continue—if need be, till death! ”
Char’s soft weeping, her head buried in her arms splayed across her desk, filled the room. Brady wiped tears from his own cheeks and draped a comforting arm around her shoulders. He looked back to see Mr. Lovejoy’s eyes now wet with emotion but gleaming bright with resolve.
* * * * *
Close to three o’clock on an early-November morning, the Missouri Fulton approached the Alton wharf. Aboard the steamboat was the fourth press Mr. Lovejoy had ordered. As planned, this crate was well guarded. Brady joined a number of volunteers who helped transport the heavy crate from the dock to safe storage at Mr. Gillman’s warehouse built of sturdy brick. Lifting the crate was a challenge, but with enough volunteers, they completed the task.
As morning broke, Brady felt relieved all seemed peaceful. Mr. Lovejoy went home. But others came to the warehouse with reports of pockets of unrest in the community.
So as not to repeat the mistake with the previous press, a group of volunteers was to be deployed to guard the press overnight. Brady volunteered with seventeen other men. He felt encouraged to have Mr. Gillman, himself—the building’s owner—as one of those men.
Chapter 21
Only some of their eyes betrayed a mounting inner fear. Brady figured his surely did, if the pounding in his chest was any sign. The clamor outside penetrating the warehouse’s thick brick walls had subsided. Brady now took stock of his fellow defenders. Dim candlelight revealed a reassuring arm draped over Mr. Lovejoy’s shoulders as his head bobbed up and down in agreement. Others sat on nearby crates and barrels and fidgeted with their guns, cocking them or stroking their steel barrels, surely cold from the chill November air. But the question of the hour was would those barrels soon warm up? Brady flexed his fingers, loosening his tight grip from his musket.
The sound of clomping footsteps below reached them. Some of the fearful eyes now looked up toward a far door, likely imagining the men a floor below lumbering up the stairs. One set of steps was heavy and authoritative. The two following sounded lighter but dragged as if reluctant participants. The din outside had quieted—probably in anticipation of what was to follow from this meeting on the warehouse’s third floor.
Just minutes ago, the noise had made Brady’s ears throb. Brick and stones from the cobblestone street shattered the glass windows—most likely all of them. Shouts and taunts rumbled until indistinguishable one from another. An occasional gunshot had been fired from both sides, but were they aimed or were they mere shots in the dark?
The three men’s gaunt visages now appeared through the doorway. Even in the dim light, Brady immediately recognized Mayor Krum. He wasn’t sure who the others were. Mr. Lovejoy stepped toward the approaching figures.
“Mayor Krum—I’m so glad to see you here.” A long exhale followed as he extended his right hand to shake. “This is all spiraling out of control.” A quick swipe across his brow flattened the furrows but revealed an unmistakable tremble to his hand.
After a deep breath raised his shoulders, Mr. Lovejoy continued, “We’ve got every right to defend ourselves and our property, do we not?” His voice, no doubt meant to sound assertive, cracked along the way.
“Yes, indeed you do,” the mayor responded. “But somebody fired a shot that hit young Lyman Bishop.”
“Oh my! Is he OK?” Elijah’s eyebrows lifted in genuine concern.
“I believe he’s going to be all right, but we can’t let this escalate to something worse.” A grimace flattened the mayor’s mouth as he looked down, shaking his head side to side.
“Well, do you understand, my dear mayor, what this printing press represents?” Mr. Lovejoy filled his lungs with another deep breath. “If something ever stood for freedom of the press, this is it.” His hand slammed down hard on one of the crates next to him.
“We are prepared,” he continued, then grimaced with emotion. “We are prepared to defend it at all costs.”
Brady’s knees felt weak as he scanned the eyes of the other comrades, their worried gazes darting in every direction. What does defend really mean? Or was this small band of defenders just making time? They had no plan. They were not prepared. Yes, all but one of them had guns, but ten times as many people had gathered outside those brick walls.
The bells tolling from the nearby Presbyterian church tower joined his chorus of thoughts. With each toll, a sense of foreboding increased.
“Let’s wait this out a bit.” The mayor tilted his head back, thrusting his strong chin into profile. “Maybe things will settle down.”
But the noise outside now increased. Folks appeared to be getting restless, having waited for the mayor to defuse the situation. Brady moved toward a window to survey the agitated crowd. The light from multiple torches illuminated angry faces. He recognized a familiar one near the building—that of Solomon Morgan—egging on the others. His staggering gestures and slurred speech were emboldened by a friendship he must have made earlier in the evening—with a bottle of liquor, probably now lying empty on a table in some bar. No doubt, more than a few in the crowd were feeling equally uninhibited. Brady looked for others he might recognize, but handkerchiefs covered their faces. He had a hunch, though, that some were his neighbors.
“Bishop is dead!” came the piercing shout from one reveler.
Brady slumped and turned back to relay the news. Was the shock on their faces from sympathy, or was it from outright fear?
Brady gazed out again at the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man with a ladder. He was lugging it toward the windowless side of the b
uilding. What was he up to?
“I’ll go talk to them.” Mayor Krum hustled past the group, his tread heavy as he hastened downstairs.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Brady felt each step shaking something deep inside him. He tightened his sweaty grip on his musket. Would they listen to the man?
The door squeaked as the mayor opened it. Then his strident voice cut through the murmurs, encouraging the horde to settle down. Rioting was dangerous, he warned, and people would be prosecuted if they broke the law.
Brady touched the chilly glass pane—probably one of the building’s only unbroken windows—and held his breath. What was happening down there?
Stepping in close, he rested his forehead against the window as he tipped his head to best see the reaction below.
“Get out of the way and go home!” someone yelled.
Bam!
Brady slammed his forehead against the glass while jumping at the exploding shot. More successive shots fired into the air.
He rubbed the bruised spot. Then his hand froze in place, every bit of him shivering.
He lurched from the window toward his fellow defenders. “Mr. Lovejoy. I saw them carrying a ladder to the side of the building,” Brady said. “They had torches, too. What are they up to?”
Mr. Gillman must have heard him and rushed over. His face was ashen white. “You know,” he said. “The roof is made of wood! They must be trying to set it on fire.” He hunched over, his head drooping, as a new chant confirming those suspicions rose on the breeze.
“Burn them out. Burn them out. Burn them out!”
First one voice, then another, then dozens all crying the same thing.
“Burn . . . them . . . ”
“Out.”
“Burn. Burn. Burn!”
Brady wasn’t sure if the words were still rising or just echoing in his head as his worst fears became real.
Elijah Lovejoy strode forward with gritted teeth. “No way—we can’t let them burn the place. Who will join me to push that ladder down?” With uplifted arms, he exhorted his supporters.
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