Authors: James A. Michener
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Family Saga, #Sagas, #Historical, #Action & Adventure, #General, #Romance, #Eastern Shore (Md. And Va.), #Historical Fiction, #Fiction, #Chesapeake Bay Region (Md. And Va.)
The lasting value of Steed’s letters lay in his discussions of management and economics. These occurred in no specific letter but infused them all; he displayed himself to be the best type of plantation owner—informed and desirous of operating his large holdings at a profit to everyone. In a dozen unplanned ways he disclosed his determination to provide his slaves with decent living arrangements and a carefully regulated share of the good things that resulted from his management. Each slave received more clothes than on other plantations, more food. He was especially attentive to the sanctity of family life and abolished the old custom, adhered to by Uncle Herbert, of selling a refractory husband south without regard for the wife and children kept behind. He explained his reasoning:
A healthy slave represents both a substantial investment and a good opportunity to turn a profit, but the investment is destroyed and the profit lost if the slave is in any way incapacitated by ill treatment, and by this I mean not only physical abuse but also the mental wounding that can occur through separation of families or inattention to the slave children. If the dictates of humanity do not protect the slave, the principles of prudent husbandry should.
The letter that was most difficult for northern analysts to digest was XX, for in it Steed explained to Noel Fithian his theory that freedom in the United States depended upon the continuance of slavery. He cited some fifteen cogent arguments, drawing upon the experience of Greece, Rome and early America. He was convinced that free men could flourish only if supported by a slave class and argued that it was not the freedom of the white gentleman that he was defending, but the welfare of the slave. Never did he waiver in this conviction; never did he admit the slightest concession which might disprove his thesis. One of his citations gained wide circulation:
The freedom enjoyed by citizens of the United States, to the envy of the known world, was engineered primarily by gentlemen of the South who owned slaves. Of the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence, those who made the greatest contribution were slaveowners. Of those who framed our Constitution the majority of true intellects came from the South. Of the twelve Presidents who have guided our nation to its present level of enviable success, nine have been slaveholders and their leadership has been the sanest and the most appreciated by the nation at large.
He argued that it was only the gentleman, set free from mundane matters by the hard work of his slaves, who could properly assess the movements of society and separate good from bad. He said it was the wives of those concerned gentlemen who inclined society toward the higher values:
It has been the women of the South who have kept aflame the beacons of our nation: charity, gallantry, compassion, grace, and all the other amenities. They could do this because they were set free—by the existence of family slaves—to attend to matters of greater moment than washing and cleaning. It is not the women at the north who have established norms for our national behavior, for they have been preoccupied with petty matters. It is our gracious ladies of the South who have set the patterns.
And again he returned to his basic theme that it was the existence of slavery that enabled black men and women to be free:
So what we find is that the black woman of the South is more free to pursue her true interests of motherhood and family care than the so-called free woman at the north who works in some mill under conditions that prevent her from enjoying life. True freedom is found in a disciplined society in which each participant has a place and knows what that place is.
He saw himself as the 1847 inheritor of Pericles of Athens, and Marcus Aurelius of Rome, and George Washington of Virginia, and he endeavored to hold himself to the austere standards set by those men. ‘Their freedom to move in the world,’ he often said, ‘was based upon the existence of slaves who performed the lower categories of work.’ But he was not insensitive to the nagging question of the abolitionists: ‘Must the slave live his entire life without hope?’ He addressed himself to this matter toward the end of Letter XX:
You will remember, Noel, the fine slave girl Eden who attended you when last you visited us. She was in all ways a superior person, and the loving care she lavished on Susan after our accident was the principal reason my wife survived. We set Eden free, and paid her a salary which she could accumulate for the purchase of her husband, that fine Xanga mechanic you commented upon at the forge. They now reside in our village of Patamoke, where the husband has built a good business as carpenter and general fixer. Eden, it may interest you to know, voluntarily offered to continue her work at Devon and nurse Miss Susan, who under her care can now walk with a proficiency you would not believe. I venture to suggest that both Eden and her husband are happier here in Maryland than they could possibly have been in Africa.
In fact, Paul Steed convinced himself that he protected the freedom of all men, especially the freedom of the slaves under his control. ‘I serve as their master for their own good,’ he reasoned, and he was so forceful in propagating this theory that everyone along the Choptank came to believe that ‘our slaves are happier under our benevolent care than they would be if they were set free.’ Everyone believed this, that is, except the slaves themselves and workingmen like George Paxmore.
Paul Steed had long been aware that he must one day have trouble with the Paxmores over the question of slavery, and in late 1847 he was visited by Thomas Cater, the postmaster at Patamoke. Mr. Cater sailed down to Devon, wearing his dark suit and a darker frown, to place before Mr. Steed evidence that the Quakers at Peace Cliff were receiving seditious mail. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it, sir, had I not seen it with my own eyes,’ and he threw on the desk a heavy envelope that had been sent from the North with a copy of the
New York Tribune,
a provocative journal dedicated to stirring up trouble.
‘There it is,’ Mr. Cater said gingerly.
Steed would not touch it, for Maryland law explicitly forbade the circulation of any material ‘calculated to stir discontent among our
colored,’ and men had been sent to jail for ten years for the offense. At first the law had applied only to inflammatory rags like
The Liberator,
but now it covered even reasonable papers that questioned in any way the morality and economics of slavery.
‘What shall I do with it?’ Mr. Cater asked.
‘The law says you’re to burn it.’
‘Each time it arrives?’
‘You have no obligation to encourage black uprisings.’
Mr. Cater, not wanting to take the offending journal back to Patamoke, asked Mr. Steed if he could have a match, and when this was provided he went onto the lawn, knelt down and set the newspaper afire. When only black ashes remained he returned to the house. ‘I’ll take note of everything they receive and keep you informed.’
Steed’s concern over Paxmore’s possible treason was put aside when word reached Devon that Senator Clay had at last found a date on which he could cross the bay to discuss the proposed railroad. Extraordinary preparations were made for his comfort, for he was an old man now and travel would be difficult; he was not really a senator any longer, but he retained the title and had such power that if he approved an Eastern Shore railroad, his former colleagues in the Senate would probably support it. So the big guest bedroom in the west wing was readied with flowers; slaves were drilled in how to attend the famous Kentuckian; invitations were dispatched to important citizens in the area; and Susan Steed wheeled her chair into distant parts of the mansion, attending to those small details which accounted for the social distinction of the Steeds.
It was midafternoon when the sloop arrived with the senator, and when he stepped ashore, a tall, thin, distinguished man of seventy-one, with handsome flowing hair and wide, expressive mouth, he brought a dignity which bespoke his years of service to the nation. Characteristically, he paused at the wharf, surveyed the plantation, making a quick assessment of its management, and started up the graveled path, his step firm and even eager.
‘You keep a fine establishment,’ he said approvingly to Paul, who had to hurry on his shortened leg to keep up. ‘I miss my farm in Kentucky—the animals especially. I like good husbandry. It marks a good mind.’
When he approached the mansion, old Tiberius stepped forth in his blue uniform and white gloves, bowing from the waist. ‘Yo’ is welcome to Rosalind’s Revenge,’
‘What revenge did she take?’ Clay asked, stopping on the porch to study the plantation from this perspective.
‘Several,’ Paul explained. ‘She hanged the pirate Henri Bonfleur.’
‘I’ve heard of him,’ Clay said, admiring the manner in which the garden led down to the creek.
‘And it was her ship that captured Blackbeard. Cut his head off, you know. She was a terror.’
‘And did she build this beautiful house?’
‘She did.’
‘Used the Flemish bond, I see.’ Nothing escaped this great man’s eye. When he saw Susan Steed approaching him in her wheelchair he became all grace, and hurried forward to assist her as she projected herself upward. ‘How excellent of you to invite me to your shore,’ he said, not grandly but with the intense warmth of a Kentucky farmer who liked to see well-stocked plantations.
‘We’ve invited some of our leaders to meet with you,’ Steed said. ‘Their boats will be arriving.’
‘That pleases me.’
‘Would you like to repair the damages of the trip?’ Steed asked.
‘No. I travel well. But I would like to hear your statement of the matters which bring me here,’ and he made his way instinctively to the sunroom, where the late-afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, making the room warm and hospitable. There, in a comfortable chair, he drank two whiskeys, then asked, ‘And what of this railroad?’
Steed had prepared a map showing the Eastern Shore, and whenever he looked at it his anger rose. ‘Sir, it should be obvious to anyone that this peninsula ought to be one governmental unit.’
‘I tried in vain,’ Clay said, chuckling at the obstinacy he had met when sponsoring a bill to bring the three parts of the peninsula into one state. ‘But have you ever tried to tell one sovereign state anything? Let alone three.’ He shook his head, then studied the map. ‘What have you in mind?’
‘Simply this.’ And with bold strokes Paul outlined what he thought should happen: ‘Let the federal government authorize one solid railroad line from Wilmington due south to the tip of Cape Charles. That will unite the whole peninsula to Norfolk across the bay. Then let individual towns build spurs into that major line. And up here, a ferry that will run to Baltimore.’
‘Steed, you make enormous good sense, as always. But you overlook one salient fact. The metropolis of this region is destined to be Baltimore, and since wheat has supplanted tobacco as your major crop, Baltimore’s whole preoccupation will be with the West, not the South. When we complete a great railroad to Chicago, the westward pull will be irresistible. Look to Baltimore, not Norfolk.’ He was eager to expand on this, but guests began arriving, solid businessmen from various parts of the Choptank, and Clay greeted each with courtly deference, listening carefully as Steed explained who they were.
After a substantial dinner, with three kinds of wine, Mrs. Steed wheeled her chair away from the table and said, ‘Ladies, I think
we should leave the gentlemen to their cigars,’ and off she led them.
‘Mr. Steed’s been telling me about his hopes—your hopes, that is—for a railroad,’ Clay said with an inflection which implied that he supported the idea.
‘Yes!’ various voices cried, and when the map was fetched, each man explained what he and his group were willing to contribute to the grand design.
‘Surely, there would be no way for the rails to cross the Choptank,’ Clay said.
‘Quite right, sir,’ a merchant from Dorchester County agreed. ‘What we plan is to bring this spur to Patamoke, and end it there. Terminal. On our south bank we build due east and hook on to the main line.’
‘Of course, Senator Clay,’ a Patamoke man interrupted, ‘there’d be a ferry across the Choptank. Is now, for that matter,’ and he indicated where the little ferry ran.
‘It seems a splendid concept,’ Clay said.
‘You’ll help us?’
‘I shall indeed.’
This commitment delighted the Eastern Shore men, because the word of Henry Clay was like bars of gold in a safe built on rock. He was a politician who got things done, the expediter, the slaveholder who understood the North, the one man who saw the nation as a whole.
But the Choptank men wanted to be sure that Clay would be in a position to deliver on his promise. ‘Is it true that the Kentucky legislature will send you back to the Senate?’
The bluntness of this question, touching as it did on the delicate matter of his uncertain future, must have embarrassed Clay, but he did not show it. Turning to his questioner, he said softly, ‘From the time I first served in the Kentucky legislature, sir, I have always been at the call of my country. And even though I am now an old man, if Kentucky wishes to summon me to duty, I shall respond.’ And then he added, ‘If I am returned to the Senate, I shall support your railroad. But I want not only your relatively short spurs. I want a whole network of rails, binding this nation together. I want an end to North and South, West and East. Most particularly, I want an end to our bitter rivalry over slavery.’
Railroads were not mentioned again. ‘You good men of Maryland stand at the border between the rivalries. Some like Steed are southern planters. I imagine that most of you have no slaves.’ He asked for a show of hands, and two thirds of the men indicated that they held none.
‘So you men at the margin, tell me what we must do to bind this nation together.’ He leaned forward, an old man, really a very old man, for he was worn out with fighting, and pointed to each man in turn, seeking advice.