Freedom's Call

by Douglas Cornelius

  In loving admiration,

  William Wells (Sandford) Brown

  Brady dropped the letter and dashed out the door. At his uncle’s place, he announced to his aunt he’d be making plans for a trip to Cleveland. He rocked on his heels, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes—another journey via steamboat! He thought about the long trip up the Ohio River, then the trek by land to Cleveland on the shores of Lake Erie.

  Justice may have been a long time coming, but it must be served. He would be sure to pack his Bible, and his gun.

  Chapter 24

  On the Ohio River, Brady leaned over the railing of the Emperor and breathed in deeply to fill his senses. The trees passing by along the shoreline now displayed the fresh bright green of new leaves. The churning waters slapped by the paddlewheel created a reassuring sound. Yet a tingle continued to shoot up and down his spine. Was it from the chill of the April air, or was it from the unsettled thoughts filling his head? For sure, a battle was taking place in his mind.

  Why am I still obsessed with confronting this William fellow? After all these years? William made a critical mistake, but haven’t we all at some point? To think it all started with my throwing snowballs at him as a young kid. Why can’t I just let it all go? Maybe, maybe it’s because I loved my mother so much. But that was because she loved me first. Yes! I owe it to her. Absolutely! A fish jumped from the water in front of him.

  But what would she want me to do now? What about Mr. Lovejoy? What would he advise? And God?

  * * * * *

  Now in Cleveland midmorning two days hence, he gazed out at Lake Erie’s calm cold waters and watched for an inconspicuous moment to sneak on board the steamboat Detroit docked at the wharf. Where would the steward named William, alias Sandford, be at this time of day? The galley?

  Managing to board unnoticed, Brady used his familiarity with steamboats to find the galley. There, a black man dressed in black pants and vest stood at a counter, his back to Brady. The unforgettable body shape and sideburns of the man appeared to be the same as Brady had seen on the Chester years ago.

  “I’m sure you’d rather be here on the Detroit than on the Tecumseh,” came Brady’s opening snide remark. “Isn’t that right, William? Or should I call you Sandford?” He crossed his arms, his shoulders back.

  The man set down a pitcher and rotated, his eyes scanning Brady, then focusing on Brady’s eyes.

  “How is it you know me?” he asked with a tightened jaw.

  “I’m Brady Scott. You blew me and my parents off the Tecumseh that fateful day five years ago. Seventeen people died, not the least of which was my mother.” Brady clenched his fists. Visions of shrieking people and the body of his mother lying on the cold basement floor of the church raced into his mind. He reached inside his vest to find his gun. He needed the reassurance of the hard barrel of the pistol.

  “That was a terrible day.” William’s chin trembled slightly as he looked away. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Of course, neither will I. The day you and your boys just kept stoking that fire—just kept shoving wood in till the boiler said enough and exploded.” He shook his head.

  “It was a foolish mistake on my part,” William uttered softly. “I’m so sorry your mother was one of the casualties. If I could somehow change things, I would.” He lifted an eyebrow and stared ahead blankly. “It has haunted me, and I’ve prayed about it every day. Believe me.” He leaned in.

  “Don’t you think I’ve prayed about it too?” Brady blurted. “I’ve been ravaged with thoughts of revenge. I lost my mother, but on top of that, I lost my chance for my dream job.” Brady’s eyes searched the floor as he released a heavy sigh. “I was taking my final test to become a cub pilot.” The words escaped almost of their own, soft and free. “Ever since, it’s been like my name went down with the Tecumseh.”

  “I’m sorry—I really am.” William’s shoulders slouched.

  Just then the door opened, and a young black boy darted in, dashed to William, and clutched his leg.

  “I thought you were going to get us some food, weren’t you?” The scowl on his face must have matched the hunger in his stomach.

  “I am busy right now. In a little bit,” William responded. He bent over and cupped his hands around the boy’s face, then kissed the top of his head. “You’ll have to be patient,” he said as the tender tips of his fingers wiped the young man’s brow. The boy turned and ran back out the door.

  “Your son?” Brady asked.

  “Oh, no, just a friend.”

  Brady’s lips parted in an extended moment of breathless silence. Finally he interjected, “I suppose you’ve heard Mr. Lovejoy was killed last November.”

  “Yes, I do read the newspapers, you know. I loved the man. Did you work with him?” His eyes went glassy.

  “Yes, and I am aware you did too—even before me.” Brady took a stride to the side.

  “Now there was a man who truly heard freedom’s call.” Tears now flowed freely down William’s cheeks.

  “So now I’m looking straight at a free man. Is that right? Did you purchase your freedom?”

  “No sir. Nothing to purchase. Yes, it helps to be in free territory. But I’ve had my freedom all along. God gave it to me,” he asserted, his jaw firm.

  Absolutely no doubt about that, Brady thought. He was an equal in God’s eyes. What’s more, this man is a warm, compassionate, and remorseful fellow—maybe more human than me. To think I once hunted him down like an animal! He certainly doesn’t deserve to see the cold hard steel in my pocket! Words from Scripture reverberated in his mind.

  Brady took a few steps to the side, looking down, then turned back. “It’s . . . taken a long time, William, but God has been pushing me to a new place with this whole mess. He keeps pushing, so maybe it’s about time I listened.”

  “How’s that?” William’s lips parted slightly.

  “It’s become clearer to me, for sure. And I can’t forget that on that day I was the one who got us into trouble in the first place. What’s more, I was just as capable as you of making the same mistake stoking the furnace. We’re all human. God has forgiven you.”

  William gazed downward and mouthed softly, “Yes, I feel that he has.” Then he looked up, his eyes locking on Brady’s as he asked, “But have you?”

  Silence seized the moment.

  “I . . . do forgive you,” Brady responded, then swallowed hard. “I am sorry, William.” Brady stared into his former nemesis’s eyes, still wet with a brow that twitched.

  He advanced a footstep forward, then stopped. “May I give a free man a hug?” he asked. A shiver rose through him.

  William met him, and the two shared an extended embrace. Brady sniffled as his eyes teared up.

  “Are you all right?” William asked, pulling back a step as they stood looking into each other’s eyes, still close.

  “You don’t have the whole story, William.” Brady paused to gather strength. “I’m sure that over the years life has been a hundred times more difficult for you than for me. But the worst part was I . . . ” He sighed, then continued, “I actually paid money to have you hunted down. I feel so ashamed.”

  “Oh!” William blurted out. Brady could see the man’s eyes going back to those dreadful events. “Wow,” William continued. “That chase was quite the ordeal. Phew!” He took another stride to the side and twirled away, shaking his head. After a few moments of silence, he began again, “But, you know, that’s all history. Let’s put it behind us. You have forgiven me, so how can I not forgive you?” William’s gaze lowered as he appeared to search for a change of subject.

  Another man in natty sailor attire entered the galley.

  “Why, here is Pilot Quigley,” exclaimed William with a sigh of relief.

  “Who do we have here?” the man asked, looking at Brady.

  “Well . .
. this is, er, a friend going way back to my Mississippi River days. Brady Scott’s his name. Man, does he know that river!” came his upturned voice. “Better than all the hawks flying above it and all the fish swimmin’ in it! Lots of piloting experience.”

  “Good to meet you,” Brady said, extending his hand, but his emotional exhaustion caused him to struggle to muster the strength for a firm handshake.

  The pilot held up a bag in his other hand.

  “I stopped at Claire’s Bakery this morning and saved a roll for you, William. Now maybe the two of you could split it.”

  “No, thank you,” came back from both, almost in unison. “Appreciate the thought, though,” William added.

  “So, tell me, Brady,” Pilot Quigley continued. “What brings you here?”

  Silence followed.

  “Well, er, since you’ve asked . . . ” Brady stumbled with his words.

  “He’s checking on that opening for a cub pilot,” William was quick to add.

  Brady’s head jerked up as he felt his eyes widening.

  William smiled with a wink.

  “Terrific,” Mr. Quigley replied. “I’ve been looking for someone for quite a while now. These would be new waters for you though, right?”

  “New, indeed. I like new challenges, though.” Brady flashed a confident grin.

  “As one of the big lakes, Erie is naturally one of the shallowest. Sometimes it gets pretty rough. You have to pay attention,” the pilot said.

  “But I’m sure it could be mastered in a short time,” Brady replied.

  “Well, then. Let me show you around the boat. Let’s start at the top—the pilothouse. That’s my favorite spot.”

  “Mine too!” Brady bounced from foot to foot like a kid.

  His pulse raced as the pilot showed him one feature of the stately steamboat after another.

  They ended up on the lower level where several skids of freight were stored. Brady happened to look behind a crate where a black man and woman cowered.

  “Are they deckhands?” he asked.

  “Oh no. Look a little farther behind the crate.”

  A young boy with big eyes peeked out—he was the same one who had come into the galley earlier.

  “I’m not supposed to know they’re here,” Pilot Quigley whispered, his eyes gleaming as he turned toward the boy. “But since I’ve run into you, young man, I have one last sweet roll here in the bag, if you’d like it.” The boy cast a pleading look toward his mother, who responded affirmatively.

  Brady smiled down at the young man who soon had devoured a large bite of his roll. The way the boy’s tongue licked lingering sugar off his lips reminded him of Mr. Lovejoy.

  “Every trip, William brings two or three along,” the pilot continued. “When we get to Canada, they step off the boat to a life of freedom.”

  Brady’s heart pounded, and he tingled all over. He lifted his head and took in a large breath. But was the air as sweet as that of the Mississippi River? He spun decisively to Pilot Quigley.

  “If you’ll have me, sir, I’d love to be your cub pilot on the Detroit.”

  They shook hands again, Brady’s grip now firmer than ever. After all, he thought, this could be even sweeter!

  The End

  Author Notes and Brief Biographies

  This story represents what I call historical character fiction. Unlike other general historical fiction that places fictional characters in a specific timeframe, with perhaps a cameo appearance by a noted historical figure, the intent of this piece is to substantially reveal the noted character with personality and virtues. Hence, it is much closer to a biography.

  In the course of crafting the story, however, certain specifics around happenings, dates, and exact order of events may be sacrificed. The challenge is to weave the events of a story as closely as possible to what actually happened in the significant person’s life, per the biographies. In effect, then, this book is based on a true story, or as is the case here, on true stories.

  I submit that it is far more likely a person will want to learn about a unique person of the past through story rather than by reading a biography. Reading the latter may hopefully follow, once the reader is intrigued by the historical figure’s character who’s been revealed in the story.

  William Wells Brown

  The son of a white man and slave woman, William Wells Brown was born in 1814 in Lexington, Kentucky, on a plantation owned by Dr. John Young. He spent his early years in a variety of jobs, including field hand, house servant, and tavern-keeper’s helper in the St. Louis area. For a short time, he also worked as a printer’s apprentice for Elijah Lovejoy. The account in Chapter 1 of the snowball incident comes substantially from Brown’s autobiography, Narrative of William Wells Brown, A Fugitive Slave.

  While a young boy, William was renamed Sandford, much to his chagrin, to avoid confusion with another William taken into the family.

  As an eighteen-year-old, William was hired out to a slave trader, James Walker. He made several trips to New Orleans helping Walker manage and prepare his slaves for sale. During this time, he tried to escape to freedom with his mother, but they were both apprehended, then separated for good—a very traumatic event for the son.

  William was later sold to Enoch Price, a riverboat owner and captain, who used him as a steamboat steward. Later in life (1848), William was offered his freedom by Price for $325.00. William replied that it was not possible because God already “made me free, as he did Enoch Price.” He would not pay one penny.

  In Cincinnati, on January 1, 1834, William took the opportunity to seize his freedom again. For six days, he wandered as a fugitive slave. He finally encountered a Quaker, Wells Brown, who provided temporary food and shelter. Not knowing his real last name, William took on the surname offered to him by the kind Quaker.

  A free man, William eventually made it to Cleveland where he worked as a steward on a Lake Erie steamboat. He was active in helping other fugitive slaves escape to freedom in Canada. He also took on temperance issues.

  Brown moved to Buffalo, married, and had two daughters. While there, his home became a stop on the Underground Railroad.

  In later years, he gained success writing several books as well as lecturing against slavery, both in the US and abroad. In addition to his autobiography, other writings include The Black Man: His Antecedents, His Genius, and His Achievements; My Southern Home; and Clotel, considered by many the first African American novel.

  William Wells Brown died in 1884 at the age of seventy.

  Other tidbits: Brown was never involved in a steamboat explosion. He presumably read Robinson Crusoe as he made reference to it in his writings. He was not actually hunted down by bloodhounds, but he does describe that prospect happening to others in writings elsewhere. He also described an incident involving a farm owner who nailed his barn shut to protect a fugitive slave.

  Elijah P. Lovejoy

  Elijah P. Lovejoy was born on a farm in 1802 in Maine, son of a preacher and the first of nine children. Education was stressed early in his family, and he went on to graduate from what is now called Colby College.

  After early struggles with teaching and newspaper subscription sales, he received financial backing from the college president to head west to St. Louis where he established new roots. He became a partner and editor of the St. Louis Times.

  During that time, he gravitated to the concept of colonization, the resettlement of American blacks in Africa, as a potential solution to slavery. While an editor, he hired a young black man, William Wells Brown, who went on to become a noted writer and abolition advocate as described above.

  Lovejoy struggled to find his faith calling, eventually choosing to return to the East Coast to the Princeton Theological Seminary, after which he became a Presbyterian minister. Meanwhile, friends back in St. Louis saw a need for a morals and fai
th-based newspaper there. They offered financing for him to establish the St. Louis Observer in November 1833.

  As an editor, Lovejoy did not shy away from controversial issues. He attacked liquor and tobacco use and even went as far as to confront the Catholic Church. When he eventually took a strong stance against slavery and for abolition on religious grounds, significant unrest was unleashed in the mostly pro-slavery community.

  Lovejoy was forced to move to the free state of Illinois, setting up a new printing operation just across the Mississippi River in Alton in 1836, calling it the Alton Observer.

  Opposition, however, did not wane, and mobs showed their displeasure by seizing his printing presses on multiple occasions, usually depositing them in the river. Lovejoy would not be deterred and continued to maintain his strong opposition to slavery.

  Lovejoy called for a convention to be held in Alton to discuss the formation of a state anti-slavery society. At that congress, all points of view were welcome.

  Meanwhile, a fourth printing press was on its way. Upon arrival, it was to be stored for safekeeping on the third floor of a warehouse.

  On the night of November 7, 1837, an unruly mob gathered outside the warehouse. An attempt was made with a ladder to set fire to the wooden roof. Shots were exchanged. While trying to knock the ladder over, Lovejoy was shot several times and died immediately. No one was ever convicted for his murder.

  Elijah P. Lovejoy was buried with no formal ceremony, as it was feared there might be further disruption. The service took place on what would have been his thirty-fifth birthday. Sixty years later, a monument to him was erected in Alton, Illinois.

  Lovejoy’s death became a rallying cry for abolitionists across the country. His pleas before his death defending his right to publish his views made him a champion of freedom of the press—a reputation that has lasted to this day.

  Abraham Lincoln, a twenty-eight-year-old state representative from Illinois, decried the dangers of mob rule after Elijah’s killing. Owen Lovejoy, Elijah’s younger brother, went on to serve in the US Congress and became a strong voice for abolition. Later, President Lincoln called Owen Lovejoy the best friend he had in Congress and asked him to attend the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863.