Charleston (27 page)

Tropical rain fell on Henry's burial. The Brown Fellowship Society, to which the Strongs belonged, had paid for the casket. Morris Marburg contributed the headstone. A hundred mourners, white and colored, huddled under umbrellas while the colored pastor preached and prayed at the grave. Marcelle's first child fussed and had to be led away.

Rain dripped from Alex's black straw bonnet. Wind from the harbor blew against her face. She took no comfort from the pastor's assurances of heaven for Henry. Bitterness ran in her like a poisoned river.

 

For a week conditions in Charleston teetered toward anarchy. A much larger shipment of antislavery tracts arrived. Huger found individual copies addressed to every religious leader in the city, including the rabbi of Beth Elohim. He confiscated the shipment, but word of its arrival spread. Angry men took to the streets again.

Blacks were chased and beaten. Masters sent slaves to the workhouse without provocation. The frightened authorities surrendered control of Charleston to an unruly town meeting. The meeting appointed an extralegal committee of five, led by Robert Hayne; the committee adopted a resolution calling for Northern states to outlaw abolitionist societies, another demanding that Congress forbid delivery of any mail Southern legislatures deemed “inflammatory and seditious, calculated to create an idea that possession of slave property is in any way wrongful or immoral.”

Postmaster General Kendall in Washington replied to Huger's letter. While a local postmaster had no authority to interfere with the mails, “extenuating circumstances” justified violation of that rule. Kendall's statement reduced tensions. The authorities took charge again, although armed “committees of vigilance” met incoming packets and accompanied mailbags to the Post Office.

Only one relative of William Watkiss could be found, an aunt in North Carolina too infirm to travel. Less than a dozen people gathered for his interment in a cemetery plot paid for by the Marburgs. The sun shone brilliantly. Alex thought that if a merciful God existed, He had turned His face away from her city.

 

On summer days a ray of light from a window at the stair landing illuminated Joanna's portrait at a certain hour. Alex stood in the light one morning, gazing at the picture and gathering courage. She'd brushed her hair, scrubbed her face, put on a clean dress and shoes.

Alex tapped at her mother's door. Cassandra was awake, though still in bed; she seldom came down before noon. Popular novels like Mrs. Sedgwick's
The Linwoods
and Mr. Paulding's
Westward Ho!
crowded a marble table at the bedside. Alex bought books for her mother, but she'd learned not to ask if Cassandra had enjoyed them. Open windows brought in the smell of mudflats off the Battery.

Drowsily Cassandra said, “Good morning, dear. How nice you look.”

“Thank you, Mama. I've come because I have something important to tell you.”

Cassandra pointed to the Hepplewhite chair Hamnet Strong had imitated beautifully. Alex drew it to the bed, arranged her skirt. Her mother's face was gaunt, colorless as parchment. Dark blue veins ridged the backs of her hands.

“I'm twenty years old now, Mama. I must do something with my life. That's impossible here.”

“You mean in this house?”

“Charleston. I've already discussed my decision with Ham. He doesn't approve, but he knows he can't change my mind.”

“And what is this decision?”

“I'm leaving. I want to live in a civilized city. Philadelphia, or New York, or Boston.”

Cassandra compressed her colorless lips, her only reaction. “Why, child?”

“Principally because of what happened to Henry.”

“Yes, a terrible tragedy. Such a fine boy.”

“Henry was my best friend. He had ambition. He wanted to become an actor, and he was willing to leave South Carolina forever to do it. I'm sure white men killed him. I can't prove it, but I think they did it because we were friends. Because someone saw us together and…speculated.”

“Speculated that it was more than friendship? Was it?”

“I told you, we were friends. I won't stay in a place where they'll murder and mutilate someone because of friendship.”

“Alex, Charleston's your home. You know nothing about those Northern cities. They're huge. Overrun with foreigners, and lowlifes.”

“Could Yankee lowlifes be worse than the men who killed Henry?”

Frustrated, Cassandra snapped at her. “How will you pay for a steamer ticket? Have you saved money?”

“Since I've never had to work, how could I? Another lack in the lives of young ladies of Charleston.”

“I hear such bitterness in your voice.”

“Truth, Mama. A commodity not valued locally. Ham will advance the price of the ticket. I'll repay him as soon as I can.”

Cassandra collected herself for a new attack. “Then tell me how you'll survive in the North.”

“I'm not without education, thanks to you and Papa. I can teach music. I can be a governess. I'll find my way.”

Cassandra studied her daughter's determined expression. “You have always done that. You're like your grandmother Joanna in that respect.”

Alex clasped her mother's bony hands. “Only one thing worries me. Your health. Ham's promised to take complete charge, together with Dr. Hayward.”

“Oh, I'll be fine. I plan to live a good many years. I'm touched that you'd worry, but that's what you've done since you were little.” She slipped into a reverie. “You were a scrawny baby, have I ever told you?”

“No,” Alex said, though she had, often.

“I nursed you for nearly a year. Every time, your little hands would reach for me, touch me, as though you worried that the milk would run out. If you're determined to leave, only promise me you'll worry about yourself, no one else, until you're safely settled.”

“I will.”

“And promise to write faithfully. I'll worry constantly if you don't.”

Alex hugged her. “I promise. You rest now. I love you, Mama.”

“I love you. I think I would like to sleep a while.”

As Alex left, Cassandra's eyes closed. She turned her head and buried her cheek in her pillow, crying silently.

 

In between August downpours Alex went to St. Michael's Alley to confer with her brother. She had to wait while James Petigru went over a brief with Ham. Petigru greeted Alex warmly as he returned to his office at the end of a row of desks where clerks labored. Whale-oil lamps relieved the gloom of the dark-paneled office only a little.

Ham had been moved to a small room of his own. His apprenticeship was finished and he was preparing to take the bar. “I've come about a legal matter,” Alex told him. “I thought it best to discuss it here. After I leave, I would like you to give Maudie her freedom.”

“You know how difficult that's become. The legislature—”

“Must approve it. I know. But we have friends. Judge Porcher, Mr. Petigru—surely they can help. We have money, if it's necessary to bribe someone.”

Ham took off his gold-wire spectacles. He looked more like an anchorite every day. He stooped continually, even when he sat. “If that's your earnest wish, I'll get it done somehow.”

“Bless you.”

“Are you sure of your own mind, Alex? Do you really propose to work against the system that prevails here?”

“Yes. I've already written Angelina.”

“You want to be like the Grimkés—an old abolitionist hen? It isn't a popular calling. Even in the North such women are roughly treated.”

“Any more roughly than Henry? I doubt it.”

“You loved him, didn't you?”

“More than I'll ever love any man.”

“I've heard time has a way of tempering that kind of certainty.”

“Not mine. I'll confess something I've never said to another human being. I wanted to marry Henry.” Ham glanced at the open door, as though fearing listeners. “He wouldn't hear of it. He knew the price I'd pay. I said I'd pay it gladly. He still refused. That's how decent and considerate he was. I believe Gibbes had a hand in his death, at least instigated it, because I'd have nothing to do with him.”

“That's a dangerous thought. I find nothing to admire about our cousin, but you know as well as I do that Simms Bell and his family are very well connected. Virtually untouchable.”

“I have no intention of trying to harm him.”

“Your solution is to leave.”

“Yes.”

“If you go, only a handful will ever welcome you back.”

“Those are the only ones I'll miss.”

“This is your home. Can you really turn your back on it?”

“Mama asked the same question. Charleston's become a cruel place. Underneath all the beauty there's a darkness. God will punish this city someday.”

“Lord, you're sounding like a Yankee already.” He sighed. “I will be so lonely without you. When will you go?”

“As soon as possible.”

Saying it, she suddenly felt unburdened; free.

Alex bought passage to Philadelphia on
Atlantic Meteor
of the Red Ball Line. The ship anchored in the harbor on the last day of September.

She scarcely slept that night. She was up at half past five, brewing coffee. Her trunk in the hall held her Bible, what few good clothes she owned, and Edward's pistols wrapped in thick flannel. Her canvas banjo case leaned against the trunk.

She spent a half hour with Cassandra, saying good-bye. She hugged the house slaves one by one, gave them each ten dollars, then told Ham she was ready. They drove to Bell's Bridge in the open carriage. Puddles and a pewter sky lingered from yesterday's rain. Here and there gaps in the clouds opened, bleeding orange light for brief periods. Ham said little, concentrating on the heavy vehicle and foot traffic.

At Bell's Bridge a barouche blocked the head of the pier. An elderly slave in an old brown suit and tall hat sat on the box, pensively examining his hands. Ouida's stiffened skirt nearly filled the backseat. She wore a velvet day coat, bright green, with a wide linen collar and bow knots down the front. Tiny embroidered roses dotted her silk bonnet. Yellow kid gloves matched the roses. Compared to her cousin's plumage Alex was a drab sparrow in her plainly cut white dress, Quaker mantle of gray silk, and black taffeta bonnet.

She felt sure Ouida hadn't driven to the pier with any good intent. She did her best to think of a pleasantry while Ham reined the carriage alongside the much larger one.

“Good morning, Ouida,” Alex said. “May I offer con
gratulations to you and your husband? Dr. Hayward told mother the good news.”

“He had no right to do that. Childbearing is a private matter, only discussed inside the family, never in public.”

“My apologies, then. I only wanted to say I'm happy for you.” She wasn't, really, and Ouida knew it. “Ham will need to write me when the baby's born.”

“Whether he does or doesn't is of no interest to me. I came here to deliver a parting message. Given your plan to join your Negro-worshiping friends who want to destroy our way of life, we no longer acknowledge a family connection.”

“If that's your message, I don't care to hear any more.”

“Oh, but I insist. Charleston is well rid of a person like you. I advise you not to show your face here again.”

“Ham, drive on.”

Upset by the exchange, he reacted slowly. Alex snatched the whip from its socket, laid it across the horse's croup. The horse lunged, nearly throwing them both off the seat. The carriage careened down the pier. Dock workers scattered.

Ham drove his boot sole against the brake rod and leaned back to haul on the reins. The carriage rocked to a stop. He looked over his shoulder.

“They've gone. I'm sorry, sister. What Ouida said was unconscionable.”

“But not surprising. For a minute I expected her to spit in my face.” It was her turn to pat and comfort him. “Never mind. She only convinced me that I'm doing what's right.”

Otto Abendschein unloaded her trunk. She carried the banjo case by the shoulder strap. Ham helped her down the steps to the waiting rowboat, nervously stepped in after her. Otto unshipped the oars; a Negro cast off the painter and Otto rowed them into a light chop, toward the anchored steamer.

The bearded captain welcomed her as she came up the gangway roped to the hull. A mate led her to a small cabin; Otto and Ham carried her trunk. Otto shook her hand, wished her well, and left.

She and Ham embraced. He went down the gangway
and almost fell in the water trying to step in the bobbing rowboat. Alex watched until he and Otto reached Bell's Bridge.

Atlantic Meteor
raised her anchor chain an hour later. Paddlewheels revolving in the ornately painted boxes, the packet turned into the harbor channel. The captain had given his few passengers the run of the vessel. She walked to the bow, holding her bonnet so the wind wouldn't snatch it.

The familiar skyline slipped away: the handsome Exchange; scaffolding on St. Philip's, where workmen were rebuilding the steeple that had burned in another devastating fire last February. St. Michael's bells rang the hour. She loved her native city, but what it stood for had turned that love to something very close to loathing.

The packet crossed the bar on the high tide. To starboard Fort Sumter's uneven masonry walls raised the question of whether it would ever be finished. To port, on the gray-green ribbon of Sullivan's Island, Fort Moultrie had filled with drifted sand. Two cows grazed inside, one standing on the parapet. Ahead, small white horses showed on the sea. To counter her feeling of loss Alex tried to envision life in the North. She was sailing into a better day, she must remember that.

Clouds opened above the eastern horizon. Misty amber sunshine streamed through, lighting patches of the ocean. She savored the salt wind. Yes, surely, there'd be a better and brighter day to banish any lingering regrets.

A better day…

“Oh,” she said softly. The anthem she'd vainly tried to write for so long filled her thoughts. Now she knew how its melody resolved. Now she knew its message.