After the service Edgar and his family slipped out a side door to the churchyard, where they bowed their heads over Joanna’s grave and the empty casket beneath Edward’s stone. Edgar knelt on the wet grass, tearful.
The family left by the churchyard’s beautiful iron gates, each with a great funeral urn worked into the design. On the street Alex saw Congressman Lark standing on the step of his black landau, waiting for someone. “I have something to say to you, Edgar,” Lark called.
Cassandra squeezed Alex’s hand. Edgar confronted Lark calmly. On the carriage step Lark had an advantage of height. “I understand from a friend that you lately referred to me as a coxcomb.”
Edgar didn’t resort to lies or evasion. He gazed at Lark steadily. “And so?”
“If I hear of it again, I’ll forget my congressional oath to uphold the law and demand satisfaction. Nothing would make me happier. The Lark family has a long memory. Keep it in mind next time you’re inclined to babble.”
He flung himself into the landau, where Alex glimpsed the venomous faces of Mrs. Lark and Folsey. The congressman rapped the carriage roof, the team lunged forward, and the wheels threw off a fan of brown water from a puddle. Cassandra exclaimed and leapt back, soaked and muddied from waist to forehead. Alex’s father looked mad enough to kill. Almost as mad as the congressman.
“Papa, what’s the tariff?”
Edgar looked up from the ledger, his face carved into planes of light and shadow by the hanging lantern. He’d gone to Bell’s Bridge to examine the books first thing that morning; Cassandra said shipments had fallen dangerously low. When St. Michael’s rang two o’clock, Cassandra dispatched Alex with a dinner sack of cold chicken, cold roasted sweet potatoes, an orange, and Edgar’s favorite, benne-seed cookies. Alex hated to see her father sitting in the gloomy little office with the burlap curtain drawn over the only window. He looked haggard.
Edgar laid down his quill and folded his inky hands. “Why do you ask?”
“I hear about it all the time. It’s in the air like the gnats in July. Miss Fancher talks about it, though she can’t explain it. I don’t understand why everyone’s on fire about it.”
He thought a moment. “A tariff is a special tax imposed when imported goods arrive in this country. It adds to the price of the import. If I’m a New York factory owner manufacturing the same goods, I can sell mine more cheaply. A high import duty protects my market and my profits. But if no one makes those goods here, and we in South Carolina need them, we pay a higher price because of the import duty. Calhoun believes the game is rigged in favor of Northern businessmen. It’s a complicated question.”
“But must I think about it?”
He rubbed a thumb over his face, leaving an ink smudge. “Not at your age. The politicians are happy to do it. Some of their ideas may be useful. Some may prove dangerous. The concept of nullifying an unpopular law, for instance. Mr. Calhoun is the foremost exponent, though he prefers to call it a state veto. He contends it’s a peaceful way to settle sectional issues such as the tariff. Hotheads like our governor take it to dangerous extremes. Their position is no tariff or no Union.”
He saw her attention stray to a tiny spider motionless on a corner of his desk. He rattled the sack. “Have another cookie and we’ll discuss this another time.”
“No, that’s all right, I understand,” she exclaimed, though she didn’t. She kissed and hugged him and ran out with the cookie.
Images of Virtue and Lydia troubled her dreams. Even at home slavery seemed ever present, like some invisible taint in the air.
She told Henry. He suggested she talk with someone outside her family. Edgar openly opposed radical action to protect the institution, but he kept slaves, and that was true of most of his liberal friends such as Judge Porcher. Thus the only person Alex could think of was Thomas Grimké’s sister Angelina.
She addressed a note to Miss Grimké, whom she’d seen about town but never met. She carried the note to the Grimké town house on Church Street herself. A sense of disloyalty plagued her. She knew she was taking a rash step, but conscience compelled it.
A week passed before she received a reply to the note. Cleverly, it was delivered to Miss Fancher’s. Classmates shrieked that Alex had a beau. “Oh, one or two,” she said in a flip way. Her heart beat fast, but it had nothing to do with romance.
Miss Grimké would be pleased to visit with her. She suggested a time and place.
The Quaker meetinghouse on King Street at Queen was as plain as the people who worshiped there. Miss Grimké answered when Alex knocked at the piazza door. “Welcome, Miss Bell. Come sit, be comfortable, and share your concerns. We needn’t speak in the formal, Biblical way of the Quakers.” Alex was grateful and immediately at ease.
She guessed Angelina Grimké to be about twenty-five. Delicately built, she nevertheless gave an impression of strength. Dark curls framed a face few would call pretty, but Alex found it so, perhaps because Miss Grimké’s blue eyes conveyed great warmth. She wore Quaker garb: a simple gray dress without ornament; a white lawn fichu draped over her shoulders and pinned at her bosom. She led Alex to a semicircle of hard chairs. They sat with one chair between, the better to see each other.
Alex began by mentioning her family. Miss Grimké said, “I am acquainted with your parents. People of fine reputation. My brother, Thomas, regards your father highly. Let us speed to the point. Your missive hinted at disquiet in your soul.”
“It’s the slaves. I see what’s done to them. How they’re forced to live, with no one caring, or even protesting. My father’s a good, decent man, but he will never treat Negroes as equals. He says they’re inferior.”
“My dear brother believes that. His only remedy is recolonization in Africa. He belongs to a society that promotes it. I find it no answer at all, merely a lesser injustice. In some respects women, too, are enslaved. When my sister, Sarah, was a girl, she loved learning. She longed to emulate our brother, Thomas, and train for the law. When she spoke of it, she was ridiculed. What she desired was not possible for a woman. Not allowed. Women are prisoners of men’s rules and men’s laws.”
“How did you come to such views in Charleston, Miss Grimké?”
“By taking a long, slow, often painful journey. Sarah took it first, quite by chance. Our father fell ill. She went with him to Philadelphia to consult a certain physician. Nothing could be done for him, and he grew weak. Sarah tended him for several months at the New Jersey shore, until he succumbed. By then Sarah had seen differences between Charleston and the North, and they tore her soul. She joined the Society of Friends. Her life changed. When she returned to visit, she quietly began my own conversion.”
“You were a member of the established church?”
“Which left many of my questions unanswered, or failed to address them altogether. Simple questions. Why, for example, was a poor slave not given netting in mosquito season, so that he might sleep comfortably, as his master did? In hope of enlightenment I converted to the Presbyterian faith. I taught a Bible class. One of my pupils was a child of a superintendent at the workhouse. I went there to grade her papers. I saw the sinful cruelties of the place. Men and women laboring like beasts on the treadmill.”
“I have heard of that machine.”
“I hope your eyes will never be afflicted with the sight, but it’s well that you know of it.” With a shiver of dread Alex laced her hands in her lap.
Miss Grimké’s gaze fixed on some distant point. “In the small building behind the workhouse the treadmill grinds corn. The treadmill is a large vertical wooden drum with steps. Six Negroes tread it at one time. Six more Negroes wait on a bench. Every half minute a bell rings. The man or woman on the left of the wheel steps off, the others shift position, and a new person steps on at the right. Those waiting on the bench likewise shift to the left with each change. Thus no one rests during the entire eight hours of their punishment. The edges of the steps knock their legs and only the most agile can avoid eventual i
njury as they get on and off. If they lag or falter, a black driver with a cowhide whips them. The treadmill is an instrument of the devil.”
Alex couldn’t speak. She dabbed her brow with a white kerchief. Even Miss Grimké seemed agitated as she resumed.
“I found my Presbyterian pastor, Reverend McDowell, a wise and enlightened man who loathed slavery as I do. He was powerless to do anything about it within the framework of the local church. Two years ago, dissatisfied again, I felt a call to become a Quaker. It is a faith that promotes equality and justice. It is the only sect permitting women to be ministers. I have never regretted my decision, not even when members of my own family questioned my sanity.”
She reached across the empty chair to press Alex’s hand. “This you must know above all. No matter how visible and flagrant the sins of slavery, one person can do nothing. Reverend McDowell concluded as much, and I concur. That is why I shall do what sister Sarah did and escape.”
“Leave Charleston?”
“Both for my own well-being and to bear witness. There is a wonderful book by a Quaker gentleman who lived more than a half century ago in New Jersey. John Woolman was his name. One line he wrote seared itself into my mind. John Woolman said, ‘Conduct is more convincing than language.’ That is why I am going.”
“You really believe there’s no help for the slaves?”
“Not in this city or this state. I say it with a heavy heart. Charleston is my home, and many of its people are dear to me despite everything.”
“Then what am I to do, Miss Grimké? I have the same doubts as you. What am I to do?” Uncontrollably, she burst into tears.
Angelina Grimké slid to the empty chair and comforted her. “I’m sorry if I upset you. Your question can only be answered in the lonely depths of conscience, and I would not wish that painful examination on any living soul, unless it is freely undertaken.”
Alex gulped and wiped her eyes. She heard a clock ticking somewhere. The familiar sound calmed her. She apologized for crying. Miss Grimké dismissed it. Alex stood.
“I have taken too much time.” The truth was, she was so upset by what she’d heard, she could stand no more.
Miss Grimké helped her to the door. “I believe you have a good heart, Alexandra. It will lead you to answers for your questions. Come again if your struggle inclines you to do so. I will not remove to the North for some time yet.”
“Yes, thank you, I will.” Alex had no intention of returning. She’d approached Miss Grimké in hopes of damping fires of doubt. Instead, she’d been thrown into a pit where they burned hotter.
She stumbled to the street, blinded by sunlight and unbidden tears. What if someone saw her coming from the meetinghouse? Well, what could she do about it? Something in her almost wished it would happen.
She went to bed before sunset. Cassandra came in to touch her forehead and ask if she were ill. Alex said no, though she feared she had a disease without a cure. She lay awake listening to a nightjar in the garden, and to Angelina Grimké’s voice. Conduct is more convincing than language.
Passage of time lessened the shock of her experience. She was able to recall what Miss Grimké had said without reacting emotionally. She went by herself to Marburg’s shop, taking a bit of her hoarded Christmas money. She asked the clerk whom she knew to order a copy of John Woolman’s book, making him promise to tell no one.
33
The Larks Entertain
Because of close ties with Vice President Calhoun, Crittenden Lark won reelection in 1830 without opposition. To celebrate he invited two hundred friends and political allies to a banquet at the Planter’s Hotel on Church Street. Several favor seekers had donated to Lark’s campaign even though he incurred no expenses. Part of the money went into a private investment; he used the rest to provide his guests with a menu of pheasant and capon, oysters and French champagne.
On the November evening of the affair a late-season storm struck from the Atlantic, overturning carriages, uprooting trees, making rivers in the streets, and alerting city fire wardens to possible danger. Inside Mr. Calder’s hotel, however, all was bright light and conviviality as soon as the guests dismissed their rain-soaked slaves, who had escorted them from carriages with umbrellas.
Sophie Lark had carefully chosen her gown and adorned herself for the occasion. Her hair was braided, the braids brought around to her temples and up to the peak of her forehead. Roses and lily of the valley bound with pearls enhanced the coiffure. Her husband’s fine black coat, double breasted and worn open, complemented an ivory waistcoat embroidered with tiny waterfowl. His hair, curled by an iron, aped the latest London style; narrow side whiskers tapered to points near his chin.
Smoke and lively conversation filled the parlor, where guests mingled before the meal. Simms Bell enjoyed a cigar among a group of acquaintances. Simms had been invited because his politics compensated for his hated last name. “Tom Grimké’s sister has gone, did you know?” he said to the group.
“Hurrah,” a gentleman responded. “That’s two nigger-loving harpies the town’s rid of.”
“Tom’s a steady fellow,” someone else said. “Great benefactor of charities.”
Simms shook his head. “He isn’t a loyal Palmetto man anymore. He’s thrown in with Joel Poinsett and Hugh Legare and my cousin and that crowd.”
“Unionists,” someone sneered.
“Wash out your mouth,” Simms said, generating laughter.
Across the room Sophie cornered an elderly woman, Iola von Schreck, a distant relative of Lark’s first wife. “Iola, I must tell you about the most amazing discovery. At an estate sale up in Florence a dealer in used goods found a Bible that evidently belonged to my family at one time. It shows that my mother is a direct descendant of Governor Johnson.”
“Sir Nathaniel Johnson?”
“No, his son Robert, the royal governor.” Rather wistfully she added, “I expect he belonged to St. Cecilia, don’t you?”
The old lady saw where this was heading; Sophie and her husband weren’t members of the elite musical society, though Sophie desperately wished to be. Iola von Schreck pursed her lips. “No, my dear, Governor Johnson arrived in, let me see, 1717, but the Society was not founded until 1762.”
Deflated only momentarily, Sophie exclaimed, “In any case I’d love to show you the Bible. Would you call on me some afternoon?”
“Perhaps in a few weeks. I’m dreadfully busy.”
The old lady escaped. Sophie Lark’s manufactured genealogies and hand-drawn family trees were part of Charleston folklore. No doubt the pages of the Bible from Florence bore all sorts of erasures and clumsy forgeries. Sophie was forever striving to join the upper ranks of society, with no success.
Sailing on, Iola overheard an exchange about Governor Hamilton. “Will he be here?” “He was invited but official business detained him in Columbia.”
She greeted Bethel Bell’s daughter, Ouida, attended by Dr. Hayward. Iola wasn’t sure Ouida recognized her. Gossip said Ouida’s eyesight was hardly better than a mole’s. She was maturing rapidly, as the hovering presence of the doctor testified.
Iola continued on; a moment later Ouida stepped in the path of a waiter with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Only his agility with the tray prevented an accident. Ouida berated him for clumsiness. Dr. Hayward took her arm, whispered until she calmed down, though not happily.
Strange young woman, Iola thought with a backward glance at the commotion. But one had to consider the stock, particularly Ouida’s murdered grandmother. If Dr. Hayward thought Ouida would make a good wife, he might do well to reconsider.
A man said, “Have you called on the secretary of war and the infamous Peggy, Congressman?”
“I have not.” Lark tossed off the last of his fine Monongahela; half the gentlemen in the group were drinking the expensive whiskey. “Floride Calhoun refused to pay a courtesy call. Why should I?”
The Eaton contretemps sprang from the marriage of the former senator from Ten
nessee, John Eaton, now secretary of war, and the morally suspect Peggy O’Neil Timberlake, a tavern keeper’s daughter rumored to have lived with Eaton before marrying him. Many in Washington refused to accept or associate with Peggy, which Jackson considered disloyal; Eaton was a favorite of his. The rebuff of Mrs. Eaton by Calhoun and his heiress wife had further strained the Vice President’s relations with Jackson.
A new arrival thrust his hand out so Lark had to shake it. “Soames Bray, sir. Is it true that you were present when Mr. Calhoun publicly defied the President?”
“I was, and I’ll testify that it was a thrilling moment.” For months Lark had dined out on the famous April banquet at Brown’s Indian Queen Hotel in Washington, a gathering of pols and notables celebrating Jefferson’s birthday.
“What exactly did he say?”
“After our own Senator Hayne gave the evening’s address, clearly and skillfully endorsing the principle of nullification, the special toasts began. King Andrew the First rose and raised his glass. Staring straight at the Vice President, he said, ‘Our federal union—it must be preserved.’” Lark’s listeners groaned.
“Calhoun wasn’t daunted. He’s not called the Cast Iron Man for nothing. Never flinching, never hesitating, he threw Jackson’s look right back.” Lark raised his empty whiskey glass. “‘The Union—next to our liberty most dear. May we all remember that it can only be preserved by respecting the rights of the states and distributing equally the benefits and burdens of the Union.’”