Freedom's Call

by Douglas Cornelius

  “I will,” said one middle-aged man in the back.

  “Me too,” a brash young man added.

  “You’d better disguise yourself with handkerchiefs,” Brady said, and once Elijah had nodded, Brady began to wrap one around the publisher’s ruddy cheeks. Brady lingered and just stared as the two volunteers headed down the stairs with Elijah. What bravery, he thought.

  Brady rushed to the window. He couldn’t spot the ladder, but a glow of light from torches seeped around the side.

  About ten minutes later, Elijah returned with the other men. He sighed and exhaled loudly with a fist raised high.

  “Success!” he shouted. “We pushed the ladder over. Good work, fellas.” He glanced back toward those who had helped him. “Must have been a friend or two down there, too. Someone in the crowd was willing to help us out. He tried to stop the kid on the ladder with the torch. I wonder if the ladder was tall enough anyway—to reach the top, that is.”

  “But what’s next?” queried one of the other fellows. “This is all getting so out of control, Mr. Lovejoy. Don’t you think they’re just going to keep trying? We really have no choice but to surrender the press.”

  “We must fight it out.” Mr. Lovejoy raised his fist again. “If necessary, to the bitter end. I, for one, am willing and ready to lay down my life!”

  Brady’s heart sank as his gaze darted around to the other fellows. He tried to gather his thoughts. Were they in a warehouse or a mausoleum? How had he ended up here anyway? He was hardly one to champion a cause. Mr. Lovejoy was no rabble-rouser either. But he did have his principles, including the right of a free press to support the abolition of slavery.

  Brady wondered about the others. To his right was Mr. Gilman, the highly respected merchant, who owned the very building under attack. How his heart must ache with each shattered window. Across from him was Mr. Weller, who owned a store where many in the mob had probably bought their shoes. Surely, no one in the small group had imagined the night would turn out like this. And what about that crowd outside? Some were probably just spectators curious about all the ruckus, weren’t they?

  A mouse skittered across the floor and hid behind a crate. For a moment, Brady felt more like that mouse than a crusader for the abolition movement. In the distance, the church bells continued to toll. But a new intensity of shouts from the crowd drowned them out. Brady dashed back to the window.

  “Burn them out! Shoot the abolitionists!” came the hysterical chants at a rising pitch.

  Several of the men below were now tying two ladders together. They then headed back to the side of the building.

  “They’re going to try to light the roof on fire again,” Brady yelled out.

  Mr. Lovejoy stepped forward and rallied his group once more. “Who’s going to go back down with me to knock that ladder over? Come on!”

  Brady didn’t know quite what to think, but he could no longer be just an observer. He volunteered along with Mr. Weller. The three of them bounded down the stairs. As they rushed into the open to push the ladder over, several shots rang out from behind a nearby woodpile. Mr. Weller grabbed his leg and stumbled. Mr. Lovejoy collapsed to the ground.

  “I’ve been shot!” Elijah cried out. Brady and the wounded Weller reached for Mr. Lovejoy and managed to drag him back into the warehouse to the foot of the stairs.

  Rev. Thurlbut came out of nowhere to assist. After a quick check, he said, “Elijah’s got multiple wounds! This looks really serious.” The reverend held his rifle tight and stood guard over him. Soon the other defenders came barreling down the stairs and looked with wide eyes and gawking mouths at the fallen Lovejoy. They fled, scattered gunfire at their backs.

  As Brady now kneeled down near Elijah, several people entered the building. A man emerged from the shadows. His muffled voice sounded familiar when he asked, “Brady, are you OK?”

  No, that’s not my uncle! Is it? Can’t be. Part of the mob? The man lowered his handkerchief. Brady’s gaping mouth fell all the way open. He struggled to get the words out past the lump in his throat. “Uncle Raymond? I can’t believe that’s you!” he wailed. He swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow and looked away from something that at that moment was unfathomable.

  “Oh, this is bad. This is really bad!” Brady cried out, his head trembling. He couldn’t make it stop.

  Chapter 22

  Well past midnight, Brady sulked through the front door of his uncle’s home. He had trudged back and forth through the streets of Alton for over two hours, muttering to himself, his head in a daze. The double blow of losing his dear friend and mentor, Elijah Lovejoy, then realizing his uncle was part of the mob absolutely crushed him. He couldn’t possibly fathom feeling any worse.

  Light came through the opening to the kitchen. He charged around the corner where his uncle and aunt were seated at the kitchen table, apparently waiting for him.

  “You know he’s dead,” Brady shouted out, hoping his curt reaffirmation would carry plenty of extra guilt with it. “You must have seen that from your vantage point.” Unable to look his uncle in the eye, he glared at one of his aunt’s braided rugs beneath the dining room table, knowing full well his own eyes must be puffy and red.

  “Yes, I know,” came the solemn response of his uncle, also unable to meet Brady’s eyes as silence took over the room and the painful moment seemed much too long.

  “How could you?” Brady burst out screaming with an arm gesture sweeping high.

  “I had no part in the shooting,” his uncle mumbled. “Had no idea that was going to happen.” He held his head between his hands, his elbows planted on the table.

  “Then why were you there?” Brady’s strong but shaky voice came back. “You couldn’t stop what happened, even with a gun in your hand.”

  “Well, I knew you were with Lovejoy. Somehow I thought maybe I should be there in case you needed protection.”

  “That’s true.” Aunt Shirley’s soft voice seemed to carry all the care she’d obviously put into the rug beneath her. “He was muttering your name when he left the house.”

  Silence followed as Brady stood staring at the floor.

  “Mobs are terrible things!” he cried out. “Absolutely terrible.”

  “You add people pickled with liquor, and it becomes doubly bad.” The shadow of his uncle’s head shook back and forth across the rug. “First, there was that McIntosh fellow, and now Elijah. What has this country become?”

  “I don’t know how you’re going to be able to live with this, Uncle Raymond.” Finally, Brady looked up, his steady gaze piercing the man who had sheltered him for months. “I realize you may have been concerned about me, but if a person puts himself in a mob, he’s going to have to own it.”

  “I think it will own me.” Uncle Raymond returned his gaze with a less steady one, tears shining at its edges. “For the rest of my life.”

  * * * * *

  The following day, Brady sat with Charlotte on the steps leading to the funeral director’s home. Celia Ann and Elijah’s two brothers, John and Owen, were inside making plans. They had indicated they would try to arrange to have the ceremony the next day—Elijah’s birthday.

  “I can’t believe Elijah was only thirty-five,” Charlotte mourned, her voice fading.

  “Think of what all Elijah accomplished,” Brady said, followed by a slight smile. “Funny thing—we always used to say Mr. Lovejoy. Now we both refer to him as Elijah.”

  “I feel closer to him that way,” Charlotte responded. “Elijah is so much more endearing now, don’t you think?” She leaned in toward Brady. “Since he’s gone, I have this craving to feel closer to him. I suppose that happens most times a loved one dies.”

  “You’re right. I’ll always think of him now as Elijah.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “Just like I always call you Char instead of Charlotte—it makes me feel a step closer
to you.”

  At that, Charlotte’s eyebrows bunched together, and she began crying, tears trickling down her cheeks.

  Brady pulled her up from the step and hugged her tight. Releasing her, he wiped away some tears with a caress.

  As they stood, a lady passerby stared with a disapproving look at their public display of emotion and affection. Char now began bawling.

  “Oh, my dear sweet Char,” Brady comforted her. “It will be all right.”

  But she shook her head.

  “I know this is a terrible time for you,” he said. “Losing someone you so admired and loved.”

  A moment of silence followed.

  “It’s not just that, Brady.” She stared blankly down at her shoes.

  “What?” His mouth fell open.

  “I don’t know if I want to talk about it now.” The words eked out as she drew slightly away.

  “What? Pl-please, Char. T-tell me,” he stammered.

  She turned toward him. “No, some other time. OK?”

  “Char, you’ve opened this up. You need to get it all out.”

  “Who are we kidding, Brady?” she blurted out, her chin trembling. “Have you ever really thought about it?”

  “What do you mean?” He reached for her hand, but she held hers tight.

  “The two of us.”

  “I adore you. I always hoped our relationship would grow into something much more—blossom into something special.”

  “That’s sweet, but face it, it would never work. Society just isn’t ready for us. We both saw the look we just got from that stranger. A white boy with a mixed-race girl? We get those disapproving stares all the time. The two of us together is just out of place. I hate to say it, but it’s like a printing press in the river. I’m sorry, Brady, but after some thought, I believe it comes down to friends—friends it must remain. That will have to be the extent of our relationship.”

  The door to the funeral director’s home opened. Celia Ann, her eyes puffy and red, was followed out by Elijah’s two brothers, their faces ashen, their shoulders slumping.

  “The funeral will be tomorrow after all,” she said. Turning to Charlotte, she queried, “I have a big favor to ask of you. Would you be able to stay home with little Edward? He loves having you over, and my dear sister needs to go to the funeral.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. As much as I’d love to be at the funeral, I understand. I love little Edward—he’s so much like his father. I’ll watch after him.” She sighed. “Does he know about his father yet?”

  “No, not yet. I’m praying for the strength to tell him his daddy won’t be coming home anymore.” She put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. “Thank you, Charlotte, you’ve always been there for us.”

  On Elijah Parish Lovejoy’s thirty-fifth birthday, the day that would also be his burial day, church bells rang through the cold and rainy air. Other than family and close friends, few dared attend for fear of further mob unrest.

  He was buried in a field near his home, with the ceremony comprising nothing more than a short prayer of blessing by Rev. Lippincott. There was no formal service, not even any flowers. Brady noticed an old Negro man standing at the back of the small group of mourners. He had been the gravedigger. Afterward, Brady found out he had refused any money for his services.

  Chapter 23

  In the following days, hundreds of newspapers across the country decried the horrible tragedy that had taken place in Alton, which now took on the reputation of a lawless town. Although leaders of the mob action were identified, including a few prominent doctors, no one was ever found guilty.

  The abolitionist movement across the country gained significant new strength. Elijah’s brother, Owen, admitted to Brady that Elijah’s death probably helped the cause even more than if he had lived.

  In Springfield, Illinois, State Representative Abraham Lincoln said, “Let every man remember that to violate the law is to trample on the blood of his father, and to tear the charter of his own and his children’s liberty.”

  Other abolitionists from across the country helped to write for the Observer, which was printed elsewhere. But after several months, the newspaper was forced to shut down. Other publications carried the torch forward.

  * * * * *

  March 1838 (five months later in St. Louis)

  Brady held his hands over his head to shield from the rain. He increased his gait as he ran for the sheltering veranda over the walkway before Smith’s general store. He stopped to admire the newly mounted sign outside—Charlotte Jones, Seamstress. Feelings of pride rose up to buoy a heart still heavy with thoughts of good times gone.

  He stepped through the door while smoothing his damp hair and nodded toward a lady customer on her way out. Ignoring the other customers, he ambled past a pickle barrel and shelves teeming with textiles on his way to Charlotte’s work desk in the far corner.

  “Good morning, Charlotte. Glad to see you’re finally situated here in St. Louis.” He took a step back in admiration. “Looks good.”

  She finished a stich and looked up. “Hello there, Brady. Yes, I’m so grateful to Mr. Smith for carving out some space for me. Of course, it all started over at Mr. Lovejoy’s place. He got me this machine and helped me establish some customers there.”

  “How’s that contraption working out for you?” He tilted his head to the side.

  “Finally starting to get comfortable with it. No doubt, it does speed up my work. I think Mrs. Dithers is still mad at me. I’ve taken away some of her customers. But on the other hand, those people are happy because I’m able to charge them less.” She demonstrated a few stiches on the machine, which responded with a rhythmic whir. “I love that sound,” she said with a smile.

  “So, what have you been doing in your spare time?” He braced a hip against the table and folded his arms across his chest, enjoying the sparkle in her big eyes.

  “Besides sewing, I’ve been trying to write a poem.”

  “Poetry?” The word seemed to jolt him upright. “Wow, you’ve really come a long way, Char.”

  “It’s not very good. I just wanted to express something about the loss of all those presses in the river and what the future might hold. But with Elijah’s death, the future hasn’t started out too good.”

  “Guess it all depends on how far into the future you look.”

  An extended silence followed until Charlotte changed the subject. “Oh, do you remember Malcolm—the one who made me that saddle?”

  “Yes, how could I forget?” Visions of riding with Charlotte behind him sitting in her new saddle flashed into his mind. But it was her endearing arms clutching from behind that he remembered more than the saddle. He also could not forget Malcolm’s brother Samuel’s smile with his chipped tooth—how he was so determined to gain his freedom.

  “Malcolm and I have been having a lot of fun together.” She hummed along with the whir of the sewing machine.

  “I see,” Brady mumbled. Both remained quiet for a bit.

  “So, what are you up to today?” she finally asked.

  “I’ve got to get back up to Alton to clean out the printing office. But as far as I know, there’s no new tenant anxious to get the space.”

  “What’s left to do?” She placed a finished garment to the side with a gentle pat.

  “Today I was going to tackle Mr. Lovejoy’s desk. I’ve been putting that off—too emotional.” He stared down at his fingernails.

  “Understood.” Charlotte’s eyes locked on his. “God be with you then.”

  Brady turned to head out. He was happy for Charlotte, but that feeling soon turned a bit sour. What once was a budding romance was now just mere friendship. And Malcolm was his replacement. In the end, though, he must wish them both well.

  * * * * *

  Brady sat at Elijah’s desk, pulling the drawers open, then clo
sing them shut. Not until several minutes passed sitting in his chair was he able to linger with the thought of their contents. Inside were stacks of written sheets showing changes and edits—must have been the ones Elijah most admired. Thumbing through them, Brady noticed some with changes that were his ideas. Why couldn’t he rejoice in the contributions he had made? After all, Elijah must have kept them for some reason.

  No, not today! He must empty the drawers. He piled stack after stack of papers atop the desk.

  But the bottom drawer on the right-hand side was different. Inside, he found strictly personal letters—mostly from Elijah’s parents back East. He’d have to box them up for shipping to Celia Ann, who had moved back to St. Charles with her parents. As he pulled out each envelope and deposited it into a box, he couldn’t help but admire how much they corresponded. How he needed to do a better job with his own father.

  At the very bottom of the drawer was a different letter. It had been forwarded from the former St. Louis office of the Times. The return address was from a William Wells Brown in Cleveland, Ohio. Wait! Could it be that Sandford person he had chased years ago?

  September 23rd

  Dear Mr. Lovejoy,

  I just wanted to write to let you know I am a free man now living in Cleveland, Ohio.

  Two men have stood out in my life and will forever hold a special place in my heart. One is a Quaker who took me in when I was a fugitive slave and so desperate in Ohio. When I was hungry, he fed me and gave me shelter. He was my springboard to freedom. Running into him was truly serendipitous (hope you like that fancy word). I should rather say it was all God-ordained.

  The other man most dear to my heart is you. One of the best times in my life was working for you as an apprentice. More than anyone, you helped me to learn to read and write. Your gift of Robinson Crusoe was much cherished. (Unfortunately, I lost it in a terrible catastrophe.)

  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know how much you meant to me. If you are ever in the Cleveland area, please look me up. I’m a steward on the Detroit.