The gentlemen dutifully applauded. Lark smirked. “Then Matty Van Buren leapt in, toasting mutual forbearance and reciprocal concessions, but it was too late, the line was drawn. God bless our champion, the Vice President.”
“The lines are drawn, all right,” said a man joining the group. His tone was harsh, vaguely threatening. McDuffie of Edgefield was a lawyer and congressional colleague of Lark’s, a stern-faced Celt with black hair and sky-blue eyes. “The state is split. The Democratic party is split. Up in Greenville last week, they burned Calhoun in effigy.”
Cries of “Oh, my God,” and “Unthinkable” followed. McDuffie silenced them with a gesture and a frosty smile. “We got some of our own back. A young fellow who stands foursquare for nullification located one of the instigators of the demonstration, called him out, and ended his rabble-rousing with a bullet.”
“Good God. Permanently?” Simms Bell said.
“I am happy to say you’re correct.” Elsewhere in the hotel a sudden bursting of glass stopped conversations in the parlor. A representative of the hotel rushed in. “No cause for alarm, merely a window broken by the storm.” Which Crittenden Lark could hear howling now that the room had quieted. Another storm was howling across the whole state, McDuffie’s news confirmed that.
“Tell me, George,” Lark said to him, “do you think we must brace for more violence?”
“I do. Jackson won’t relent on the tariff, nor will we. I predict that you’ll see mobs in the streets of Charleston very soon. I welcome the confrontation. Either we’ll have no tariff or we’ll have disunion. But it’s well to be cautious.” He tapped the bosom of his frock coat. “I go armed everywhere.” The other gentlemen exchanged looks; McDuffie was a duelist of note.
Doors at one side of the room flew open. A colored footman in black livery and white hose said, “Ladies an’ gentlemen, dinner’s served.” The noise level rose as guests sought their partners and moved to the dining room. Lark found his wife and linked arms. Sophie looked forlorn.
“I asked Iola von Schreck to inspect my Bible, but she put me off.”
His public smile still fixed in place, Lark whispered, “For God’s sake, when will you stop these social didos? You got the Bible from a junk shop and the inscriptions you added are patently amateurish. Why don’t you enjoy the present instead of constantly trying to fabricate the past? It’s a wonderful party, a wonderful evening.”
Blinking away tears, Sophie said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”
For the congressman it was. In George McDuffie’s comments about impending violence Crittenden Lark saw a glimmer of an idea. A way to harm Edgar Bell and his family without personally soiling his hands.
34
The Day of the “Best Friend”
That autumn the SCC & R’s first engine arrived from New York on the packet Niagara. Mr. Allen, chief engineer of the line, supervised its assembly. Mr. Miller, who had designed it, named it the Best Friend of Charleston, plainly hoping it would be just that for the sake of the business community. Mr. Tupper, the line’s president, issued invitations to 120 prominent people for a Christmas-day excursion on the seven miles of track completed thus far.
Edgar was incensed that the line stopped at the outskirts. “A pack of pompous nitwits including Simms oppose coming farther. They claim it will poison the air and ruin the city’s charm. What the devil’s the point of bringing cargo to Charleston if you have to transfer it to wagons to reach the docks?”
Alex’s father said this on Christmas Eve, when well fortified with rum punch. As he finished, his cheeks grew mottled. Cassandra urged him not to excite himself. His eyes closed, as though he were about to swoon. His napkin at his lips, he raised his hand to signal that he was all right.
Alex worried; she’d witnessed similar spells before. Did Papa have heart trouble? Cassandra said of course he didn’t, he simply worked too hard and involved himself too deeply in affairs of his city.
Excited by the prospect of riding behind what people called “the iron horse,” Alex slept poorly that night. Late on Christmas morning the family drove out to the Lines where the track began. A five-piece German band played. Banners flew. Soldiers hauled a small brass fieldpiece up near the engine. Several hundred spectators were already lining both sides of the track.
The Best Friend itself was a railed platform on four large iron wheels painted bright red and tied together by connecting rods. The bottle-shaped boiler sat upright on the platform, steam curling from its neck. Coupled behind the engine was a small flatcar holding firewood, then seven larger cars, open, with wooden benches and canopies, all in green. Cassandra remarked that the color scheme certainly fit the holiday.
In the crowd Alex recognized Judge and Mrs. Porcher, the Petigrus with their children, the Crittenden Larks. Folsey Lark set off firecrackers to frighten and annoy the onlookers. The congressman and his wife paid no attention.
Simms Bell and his family greeted Edgar’s family politely but without warmth. Ouida looked pretty in a new frock with a muff; flushed and excited too. Dr. Xeno Hayward was in attendance. Alex wondered cynically whether Ouida’s mother anticipated an attack of the vapors this bright Saturday.
She saw Gibbes ogling her. At thirteen her cousin was already tall, and handsomer than his pop-eyed father. She promptly turned her back.
She fidgeted through boring speeches by the city intendant, the governor’s representative, Congressman Lark, an official of the West Point Foundry of New York, and, lastly, Mr. Tupper. He announced bombastically that during tests, the Best Friend had achieved speeds above twenty miles an hour. “More than twice the speed required by our contract!” Cheering followed, and the loud bang of the fieldpiece fired by the soldiers.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the engineer for this historic journey, Mr. Nicholas Darrell.” A bearded gentleman stepped forward to bow. “Mr. Darrell, will you and fireman Chisolm kindly take your places?” The white engineer and the black stoker climbed the wheels to the engine platform. “Will the invited guests please board for the first trip by the first steam locomotive completely manufactured in America for regular passenger and freight service?”
Ham accidentally trampled on Alex’s foot in his haste to get a seat on the outside. She stuck her tongue out and squeezed between her father and mother. Two strangers boarded the car, then Judge Porcher and his wife. The judge slipped a metal flask inside his coat.
“Let the journey begin,” Tupper cried from the front carriage. The fieldpiece banged again. The Best Friend started with a terrific jerk that nearly threw Tupper off. Ladies shrieked and fanned themselves.
Mr. Darrell manipulated mysterious levers on the platform. Chisolm threw wood into the firebox at the base of the boiler. Alex felt rushing air. Cassandra covered her ears and made a face. The locomotive gathered speed, leaving the trackside crowds behind.
The ride was rough, but the sensation of flying through the pines and past the shanties and over the salt creeks was quite incredible. Green woods and gray marshes sped by like a canvas museum panorama cranked at top speed. Not every passenger enjoyed it as much as Alex; a stout woman opened her reticule and threw up in it.
Perhaps encouraged by the contents of his flask, Judge Porcher leapt to his feet. “Traveling at the speed of wind, we leave the world behind. Time and space are annihilated.” Amaryllis Porcher tugged his coat, urging him to sit lest he be thrown into a creek or ditch. Smoke and sparks flew from the top of the boiler. One burned a tiny hole in the judge’s sleeve; he was oblivious. “Our magnificent steed eats fire and breathes steam. What an age of marvels. What a glorious day for the nation and the great and sovereign state of South Carolina.”
Another lurch of the car nearly disposed of him. Mrs. Porcher pulled him down by his coattails. He sat mumbling superlatives no one could hear because of the noise.
They approached a level crossing where a farmer in a buggy awaited the Best Friend. The smoking, snorting engine set the horse to pawing the air.
The horse broke out of its traces and ran away down the road, leaving the farmer shaking his fists.
The journey ended too soon for Alex. Engineer Darrell brought the Best Friend to a stop near a junction of the roads to Dorchester and Columbia. President Tupper announced a rest stop. “At the conclusion Mr. Darrell will employ reverse gear to return us to our starting point. Please stroll and make yourselves comfortable until invited to reboard.”
Some of the more bilious passengers stepped down at once. Alex felt fine, invigorated and stimulated by the remarkable experience. Ham ran off somewhere. Cassandra sat on a stump, chatting with the Petigrus. Edgar visited with some of the shareholders, leaving Alex to wander.
She walked to a grove where the air was fragrant with the scent of pines, the ground a soft mat of dried needles and leaves. It was cool, typical winter weather for Carolina. A noise behind her made her turn.
“Gibbes.”
He leaned against a pine, his arms folded. Though two years younger, he was already nearly as tall as Alex.
“Hello, sweet girl.”
The familiarity offended her. “Gibbes, are you following me?”
“Can’t deny that. Always try to get next to ladies I fancy.”
“Oh, are there many of those?”
“More’n you might think.”
Something in his eyes made her wary. She’d ventured deeper into the grove than she realized. Voices of the passengers were a distant buzz, off beyond the shafts of winter light falling through the trees.
“Excuse me,” she said, moving to one side to go around him. He sidestepped. She moved again; again he blocked her.
“What are you trying to do, Gibbes?”
“Be friendly. Every time I come close, you show your heels. That’s no way to treat blood kin.”
“Will you never learn? I don’t care to visit with you. Now, let me by.” She started forward. He seized her wrist, looked her up and down as though inspecting a prize animal. Then he released her.
“You’re a piece of work, you are. Do you treat all the boys this bad? That colored boy you hang with?”
Alex’s stomach flip-flopped. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Come on. Mr. Lacy Olcott, friend of ours, he saw you and that carpenter’s boy at White Point last year. Plenty of people heard about it later. Took your family’s reputation down a few pegs, I don’t mind telling you.” He stuck his head forward like a turtle coming from its shell. “Give me a kiss. Why not? You probably kiss Henry Strong’s nigger lips.”
“Gibbes, if you don’t stop this, in just about one more second I’m going to kick you from here to breakfast.”
It made him laugh. “One kiss.”
“Stop it. You’re not old enough to fool with girls. You don’t know a thing about them.”
“I guess I do too. I’ve been with one.”
“What?”
“I’ve been with one of our house wenches at the Hall. More’n once.”
“That’s revolting.”
“Don’t be so sure. You might like it.” He grabbed her hand and pulled it against his trousers. “Does that feel like a boy?”
Alex slapped him with all the power of her right arm. He touched his cheek where the print of her fingers showed. “You dirty snotty bitch.”
He grabbed for her with both hands. She darted aside, leaned down, scooped up dirt and pine needles, and threw them. He rubbed his eyes, cursing her with the vilest language she’d ever heard. She slapped him a second time.
“Gibbes Bell, shut up. If you ever, ever, lay hands on me again, I’ll tell everybody how you made me touch you, and exactly where. I’ll say it so often and so loud no one will doubt me. Then we’ll see if your reputation doesn’t slip a few pegs.”
Gibbes slid his coat sleeve across his mouth, staining the fabric with a little streak of blood. Heaven above—he was still smiling.
“Reckon you would do that. You suppose that’s why I like you—because you won’t have me? I’ll get my way one of these days, don’t think I won’t.”
The Best Friend’s bell rang; a man called for passengers to reboard. Alex ran past Gibbes, skirts held high.
The reverse journey was an ordeal. She kept her head down. If she looked up, there he was, smirking at her from his carriage. I’ll get my way one of these days.
Just how long would he torment her? She couldn’t imagine what went on inside his head, but she knew she had reason to fear him.
35
Temptation
In June 1831 a fireman accidentally closed the Best Friend’s safety valve and the boiler exploded; escaping steam scalded engineer Darrell badly. While Edgar worried about his investment, a second engine, West Point, was rushed from New York and repairs begun on the damaged Best Friend, rechristened Phoenix. The rails of the Charleston & Hamburg line crept toward Summerville and Branchville.
Alex’s fear of Gibbes was unfounded. After the encounter in the pine grove he didn’t bother her. Their paths never crossed.
Edgar’s friends talked passionately of Nullifiers and Unionists, Edgar standing staunchly with the latter. The Nullies, as he scornfully called them, hoped to win a two-thirds majority in the legislature next year, two thirds being necessary for calling a special convention to write a nullification law.
Support for nullification was by no means solid throughout the state, but Charleston was a stronghold. On July 4 more than a hundred Nullifiers marched to the Circular Congregational Church on Meeting Street to hear a fiery noontime address by Senator Hayne. At the same hour Edgar joined another, smaller march to the Scots Presbyterian Church, where William Drayton spoke. Drayton raised the specter of a divided Union if the Nullifiers prevailed.
In the evening each faction held a banquet, with more oratory. Edgar reeled home full of wine, zeal, and praise for President Jackson. In a letter read at the banquet Jackson equated nullification with secession and vowed to resist it with all the powers of his office. Cassandra said it sounded like war talk.
In mid-July the family took a steamer to Newport, where they rented rooms at a harbor-side hotel for several weeks. Alex missed Maudie and Henry. She hated to be away from familiar people and surroundings. She didn’t mind Charleston’s summer heat, in fact found it comforting somehow.
Edgar’s holiday was spoiled by a letter from Judge Porcher. He enclosed a piece written from Fort Hill and published in the Pendleton Messenger; in it Calhoun clearly stated his support of nullification as a conservative and constitutional means of redressing grievances.
Some argue that he came forward because of conscience, the judge said. Others claim he revealed his convictions because he has realized he will never gather enough support to be elected president. Whatever the motivation for the “Fort Hill Letter,” Mr. Calhoun is finished forever.
“And South Carolina’s prestige and influence reduced thereby,” Edgar complained.
That same month the nation reeled from reports of a bloody slave uprising in Southampton County, Virginia. Under the leadership of a supposedly well-treated slave named Nat Turner, seventy Negroes massacred nearly sixty whites in a single night. Although the revolt was swiftly put down, panic swept the eastern seaboard and lower South.
On the trip home in September they passed through New Haven, leaving Ham to begin his studies at Yale. They continued by coach to New York, where they boarded a steamer: Cassandra said she had no wish to travel through Virginia, either to risk slaughter in another uprising, or to see the heads of the Nat Turner gang displayed on poles at the roadside.
At the Charleston Theater members of the stock company gave Henry play texts, and pointers on understanding and interpreting them. During the winter he and Alex confined their meetings to safe places: the house on South Battery, the friendly kitchen of the Strongs, the theater when it was closed and there were no actors and stage mechanics tripping over one another.
In the Bells’ garden one afternoon Alex sat with Maudie, snapping the ends off gr
een beans and pulling the strings. She smiled as she related an amusing remark of Henry’s from the day before. Maudie clucked. “You sweet on that boy?”
“Nonsense, what gave you such an idea?”
“Way you talk about him. Henry this, Henry that. Way you smile when you say his name. Nothing so strange about it. Henry’s mighty good-looking. Plenty of white men favor colored girls, why not the other way round?”
“It may be all right for white men to cross the line, Maudie, though most do it in secret. It wouldn’t be right for a woman.”
“Love don’t go where it’s told. Never has, never will.”
“I am not in love with Henry Strong.” She hit her knee so emphatically that her basin of beans tipped and scattered the contents. “Oh, damn.”
Maudie set her own basin aside and went to her knees to pick the beans from the coarse grass. Alex dropped down next to her. “Henry and I are friends, that’s all,” she said, though her cheeks had acquired color, and she didn’t look Maudie in the eye.
Alex spent her days reading, sewing, making up little banjo tunes, and fighting off feelings of drifting. She read John Woolman’s book twice. His thoughts on the keeping of slaves sharpened her doubts about the system.
A plain brown parcel arrived from Philadelphia: a copy of an antislavery paper called The Liberator, published by a Boston printer named Garrison. An accompanying note from Angelina Grimké said, He does the Lord’s work. Alex found herself in guilty agreement with Garrison’s purpose but shocked by his stormy rhetoric. She asked her father for an opinion of it.
“Inflammatory. If slavery must be ended one day, hostility like this won’t do it. It only antagonizes the South and entrenches the system more solidly.”
In the summer of 1832 the Bells packed trunks and portmanteaus for a second escape to the high cliffs and bracing breezes of Aquidneck Island. Henry’s birthday fell three days before their departure. He’d mentioned a Shakespearean play whose tragic protagonist was a Moor, a black man. Alex knew he couldn’t afford a personal copy. All his wages went home, because he lived there and ate at Hamnet’s table. She bought a copy of Othello from Marburg’s.