Virginia Hamilton (9 page)

“I come to condole with you at this second disgrace which is heaped on the city… .” Parker thrust his hands into his pockets and looked heavenward. “There was a Boston once. Now there is a North suburb to the city of Alexandria, Virginia—that is what Boston is.”

There were hoots and laughter at those words.

“And you and I, fellow subjects of the State of Virginia—”

“No! No!”

“I will take it back when you
show me the fact is not so,” Parker said, and went on: “I am an old man. I have heard hurrahs and cheers for liberty many times; I have not seen a great many
deeds
done for liberty. I ask you, are we to have
deeds
as well as words?”

The tumultuous crowd answered, “Yes! Yes!”

Reverend Parker then proposed that the meeting be adjourned and that they all gather at Court Square in the morning at nine o'clock. “Those in favor of the motion will raise their hands.” There were numbers of hands raised, but a hundred voices yelled, “No, tonight!”

“Let us take him out!”

“Let us go now.”

“Come on!”

One man rushed frantically about, crying, “Come on!” but none seemed ready to follow him.

Someone else shouted weakly, “Let's pay a visit to the Revere House—where the slavers stay!”

Reverend Parker then called, “If you propose to go to the Revere House tonight, then show your hands.”

Some hands shot up.

“It is not a vote,” Reverend Parker said. He realized he was shouting and becoming hoarse. He coughed. His chest ached him now, but he continued.

“We shall meet at
Court Square, at nine o'clock tomorrow morning.
”

The audience shouted cheers and slogans so loudly that few could hear him. A voice rose on the air. “The slave shall not go out, but the men that came here to get him shall not stay in. Let us visit
the slavecatchers at the Revere House tonight!”

The crowd gave riotous approval, and those on the platform did not know how to control the excitement. The noise rose to a frantic pitch.

Thomas Higginson and Martin Stowell had planned to give a signal that would turn the crowd toward the Court House at the height of the meeting; the crowd could then free Burns, they hoped. But now it seemed too late. Neither Higginson nor Stowell had dreamed the gathering would be so turbulent. Chances were that a signal would not even be heard by those who were to lead the crowd to Court Square to free Anthony Burns.

Amid the uproar, Wendell Phillips took charge. Standing straight and tall, he uttered only a few words and the seething noise dissolved into complete stillness.

“Let us remember where we are,” Phillips said quietly, “and what we are going to do. You have said, tonight, that you are going to vindicate the fair fame of Boston. Let me tell you, you won't do it by groaning at the slavecatchers at the Revere House—by attempting the impossible act of insulting a slavecatcher. If there is any man here who has an arm and a heart ready to sacrifice anything for the freedom of an oppressed man, let him do it tomorrow. If I thought it would be done tonight, I would go first.” He struck the air with his fist.

“I don't profess courage,” Phillips continued, “but I do profess this: when there is a possibility of saving a slave from the hands of those who are called officers of the law, I am ready to trample any statute. But wait until the daytime. You that are ready to do the real work, be not carried away by indiscretion which
may make shipwreck of our hopes.
The zeal that will not keep till tomorrow will never free a slave.
”

The crowd cheered and applauded long and hard at such perfect opinion. Swayed by Phillips's judgment, it began to calm down.

Suddenly, a man at the entrance of the hall frantically waved his arms, trying to get the attention of the stage. He shouted: “Mr. Chairman! Mr. Chairman! I am just informed that a mob of Negroes is in Court Square, attempting to rescue Burns. I move we adjourn to the Court House.”

That was the signal Higginson and Stowell had planned—and all had heard! But how were those who had been party to the plan ever to get to the front of the crowd, to lead them? As it was, they were at the back on and around the speaker's platform as the crowd surged away from them.

Faneuil Hall became the scene of wild disorder. The mass of people on the first floor ran head-on into the mass streaming down from the galleries. The hall emptied and the crowd burst forth in waves to overflow in the streets. There axes, axe handles, clubs, and guns were provided by a few of Higginson and Stowell's party in the street. Shouts of “To the Court House! To the rescue, come on!” resounded as the crowd advanced to Court Square. There it broke up into smaller packs. Without leaders to make order of them, they seethed and roiled. And turned into an angry mob.

The room in which Anthony was
confined, high up in the court building, was on the very side where the mob hoped to gain entrance. But Anthony as yet had no inkling it was coming, nor did his captors. In fact, he had been so miserable this evening, thinking on his friends Reverend Grimes and Coffin Pitts, that, close to tears, he had gone deep within himself again, seeking solace. He found it, on the road with Whittom and the other Jims in the time far back in his childhood. Even the bad parts of that trip to the Hiring Ground were of some comfort. At least they belonged just to him, and no one could buy them or sell them away from him.

10
Winter 1846

ANTHONY WAS LATE
getting himself and his charges
to the Hiring Ground. That was because Simon had a stomach upset. Often, when Simon became fearful of what might happen to him, he would get cramps in his stomach.

“I cain't go no farther widout resting,” Simon told Anthony. “I sure cain't.”

“We got another hour before we stop,” Anthony said, quietly but firmly. They'd been going five hours. Later he would be sorry he'd said that. He knew all of them, Whittom and Efrum and Luther, and himself, too, had been as tired as they could be. But he had not reckoned Simon to be as sick as he was.

Knew he was small, Anthony thought later, but he allus so full of sayings and tells and riddling… .

Simon had got cramps that doubled him over. At first the boys thought he was pretending.

“Get on up, yo black thang thar,” Efrum said, teasing. “You some white skillet now, come be Missy Pale, gone sleep 'n' snore all the day clean long.”

Simon made a fist and swatted Efrum
for calling him Missy and pale. Then he gagged and brought up green bile. They watched him grow sicker under the sun, not knowing what to do.

“Some shade,” Anthony said finally. “Let's get 'im under the trees.”

“Some water,” Luther said. “I'll fetch it.” He got fresh water from the stream not a half a mile away. He trotted there and back, never once complaining.

They each tried to do as much as they could for Simon. “I coulda stopped awhile,” Anthony muttered. He had his hand across his eyes. “Worrying about ole Mars—who care, him?”

“It all right,” Simon said, hardly above a whisper. Though he was feeling sick, he was more frightened of whatever was to come. “Y' all go ahead. I be right chere. You tell Mars come get me. It don't matter none.”

He knew they couldn't leave him. To leave a fellow, a slave on the road, meant a certain lashing for all of them, the leader and the followers. Simon would fare worst of all. Nobody cared much about a slave who often was sick. And Simon was born frail—everyone knew that. If Anthony and the others left him, Mars would say he runned away; he had the run-off sickness, and would get whipped too hard, too long. He might even die.

An hour or so later, Simon was rested enough for them to go on. One time Anthony carried him on his back. Then Luther did the same, carrying Simon piggyback awhile.

Luther and Anthony took turns. It was almost fun. Simon wasn't so very heavy. Whittom and Efrum joined the turn taking, until Simon felt better
and said, “I ain't that sick.” Then they stopped awhile. They were all tired out; and they were hours late, anyway.

They arrived at the Hiring Ground at dusk. Simon was still feeling poorly, so they helped him along, keeping a watchful eye out for Mars Charles Suttle, too. At length they found him in a tavern with the other masters. Anthony went in alone. The others waited outside by the door.

Anthony dropped to one knee before Mars Charles. He swept the cap off his head and bowed.

“Ah, boy!” Mars Suttle said. “Where you been at all this day? You boys been playin' about, I suspect. I ought to whip you!” This last was said for the benefit of the men with Mars Charles. Owners from the estates near Suttle's, they knew he would not lay a hand on his top boy.

Anthony, still on his knee, shook his head. He did not look up, did not speak, but remained motionless, as he knew this was what Mars Charles wanted. He knew that Mars would be looking around proudly at his friends.

I his most prized, other than his breeders, Anthony thought. Got to be just right, all times, 'cause of bein' the leader of Jims, me, and for Simon's sake. Buckra folks always do like me, 'cause I ain't talk back, I ain't run.

Mars Charles slapped him smartly on his head. Anthony rose and stood at attention before him with his eyes still downcast. He held his cap against his chest, his free hand straight at his sides. His position there before the master was one of a careful, respectful slave, bright but not so much so as to threaten the master's wisdom. A leader boy, one who could control
others of his kind, but one who dared never challenge his owner. Both master and slave overplayed this for the benefit of those watching closely.

“Anytime you be wantin' to sell that boy, you lemme know,” said an owner. It was Mars Archibald Davenport. Anthony knew the voice. “You got tight discipline there—all yours Jims the same?” he questioned.

“They all right, with my hand over Tony's on 'em,” Mars Charles said. “An' I ain' sellin' Tony anytime soon,” he added, chuckling. He grabbed Anthony by the neck and held him up in an arm lock. He commenced rubbing Anthony's head with his knuckles so fast and hard that the heat burned Anthony's scalp.

“Huh! How's that, huh? Lemme heah ya holler, boy!” Mars Charles said.

“Ow! Ooow!” Anthony hollered. The owners laughed uproariously. So did Mars Charles, eyeing his friends to gauge the effect. Anthony looked so comical, like a ragamuffin, like something rubbery brown and on a string. He knew how to make himself go limp and take the burning sensation. He knew how helpless and stupid he must look.

The next moment Mars Charles flung him as hard as he could toward the doorway. Anthony slipped and almost fell but quickly righted himself. He hadn't expected to be manhandled just then and had not been ready. Mars Charles yelled at him crossly, “You wait outside for me. And all my Jims better be waitin' with you, too!”

Outside, Anthony trembled with fury in the circle of his friends. They'd heard Mars hollering. Now
they looked away from Anthony as he fought with himself to control his pain and humiliation. They knew it was one thing to be the leader of them, and another to be able to stand the abuse. In a way, Anthony stood in front of them on that score. And he made it easy for them all by shouldering the burden himself.

Simon was seated on the pathway, his back to the wall of the tavern, away from the front. He had his eyes closed. The others were close around him. Whittom had some scraps of food.

“Trying to get him eat somethin', but he won't have it,” Whittom said. “Say it's rotten. It look all right to this here hongry boy.”

“ 'Tis rotten—can smell it,” Anthony said quietly, resentment at Mars still in his voice. “Got to get Simon on his feet now,” he added. “Mars want us by the door when he come out. Y'all be ready for anythin'. Don't know what's got in him. Most likely, all so many slaves and buckras together. He showing off.”

“Lorda mercy,” Efrum said. “Do he plan to sell us all?”

“Ain't gone sell us 'less cause it our own selfs,” Anthony said. “He gone rent us, hire us out. That's why Simon got to stand up and look strong as he can. Simon? Get up now.”

Sweat beaded Simon's forehead as he made the effort to rise. The others helped him.

“Good,” Anthony said. “You sweat and you fever fall off, too.”

“Oh,” Simon murmured. “Oh. Oh.”

“You sick agin?” Luther asked anxiously.

They walked back toward the doorway. Laughter floated out. It was getting dark. They were all hungry, beaten by the long march to town.

Eventually, Mars Charles came out. He simply strode away, and they knew to follow at a distance. He had not looked at a one of them.

Anthony led the Jims after their owner.

Mars Charles led them near the Hiring Ground. He spun around once, seeing that they followed. He pointed to the ground. Then he disappeared in the throngs of people.

“Come on,” Anthony said softly to his charges. When they reached the approximate spot where Mars Suttle had last stood, Anthony stopped.

“What,” Whittom said.

“Just listen,” Anthony said. “That's why Mars Charles have me stop right chere where he pointed. You can hear it.”

They listened. They could hear a babbling a ways off, like the rise and fall of wind and rain mixed. It made Anthony smile sadly to himself. He breathed deeply and almost cried out. But he held himself in.

“Come on,” he said hollowly.

“Is it ev'body?” asked Efrum.

“Sure does sound like it,” said Anthony.

It wasn't long before they came upon everybody. The sight of it caused small Simon to catch his breath. It was as if Anthony read his mind. “You stay close to me,” he told them, “else somebody be gettin' all mixed up with everybody and I never will
find you in time for hirin'.”

“Sure is a lot of us,” Efrum said. It was true. Hundreds were present at the Hiring Ground. Slave men, women, and children. Black as night, some, and others brown as cinnamon and tan as oak. Lighter, even, light as the first pale hue of dawn. All these were the blacks, everyone. There were women in missy dresses and bonnets, worn for so many weeks that they were filthy and ruined, rotting off them. There were children in sack cloth, without shoes, shivering. There were men in long shirts and nothing more but their broken brogans and hand-me-down planters' hats. There were men in rags and masters' undergarments. A ruffled, filthy shirt here. A torn velvet coat, sleeveless, there. There were groups of twenty and thirty lying in heaps, exhausted and starving from their long journey, for the masters generally provided no food and no shelter.