Chesapeake (106 page)

The responses were varied; some men wanted slaveowners to be given
the right to carry their slaves into all the new territories opening in the West; some wanted the tariffs imposed by New England congressmen to be lowered; two men suggested that a timetable be set at the end of which all slaves should be set free, say a hundred years from now. And all agreed that the differences currently existing between North and South be dampened.

Now Clay began close questioning. ‘Let us suppose that a slave runs away from this plantation.’

‘It does happen,’ Paul conceded, leaning forward to catch Clay’s handling of this ticklish problem.

‘Let us suppose further that Mr. Steed’s slave gets as far as Boston.’

‘Some go to Canada,’ one slaveowner said quickly.

‘Should Mr. Steed be encouraged—nay, should he be legally permitted—to go to Boston and recover his slave?’

It was unanimously agreed that he had that right; even the two men who thought that at some distant date all slaves should be set free agreed that under current law Steed had the right to recover his property. ‘But now,’ Clay said, ‘we come to the sandy part. When Mr. Steed arrives in Boston, is he allowed to enlist the help of the United States marshals stationed there? Or the local police? Or the services of any chance bystander?’

To each of these questions, unanimous affirmatives were given, but before the senator could respond, one of the more liberal men added a word of caution: ‘I’d like to reconsider my answer on that last question. About enlisting the aid of bystanders. Wouldn’t that be provocative? I mean, the acts would be visible … in public?’

Clay leaned back as the men hammered out their reactions to this hypothetical case, and he was impressed that in the end all agreed that the return of a man’s lawful property was obligatory. Three times Clay proposed illustrative cases with slight variations and three times the men of Choptank affirmed their early decision: a man’s property was inviolate, and if it ran away, the entire force of society should be mustered for its return.

Now the doors to the dining room swung open and old Tiberius appeared. ‘Gen’lmen, de ladies is comin’ back.’ And he stood aside as Susan wheeled herself into the room, a wrenlike little woman with unextinguishable charm. Within a few minutes she established the fact that she knew as much about this problem of sectionalism as any of the men, except the senator, but custom had dictated that she retire from the serious part of the conversation.

The company slept that night in the mansion, and at breakfast Senator Clay resumed his interrogation of the gentlemen. All morning he talked with them, and at the noonday meal, and all afternoon. An hour before dusk he said that he would like to inspect the plantation, and he walked about two miles, checking everything. At one point he told Steed, who
limped along beside him, ‘One of the best things I’ve done in my life was import good cattle from England. Nothing strengthens a nation more than a solid agriculture.’ He approved of Steed’s management and surprised him by saying, ‘I’ve studied your
Reflections,
Steed, and am pleased to see that you practice what you preach.’

That night Clay was ready for another three-hour session, but the railroad was mentioned only once. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, when we do build this road, will it drag your sympathies south toward Norfolk or north toward Philadelphia or west toward Baltimore and Chicago?’

‘We’ll always be southerners, sir,’ Steed said.

Clay started to respond, but Tiberius was throwing open the doors and in came the ladies. On this night Susan said, ‘You know, Senator, that I’m an Englishwoman.’

Clay rose and bowed. ‘Your country sends us brave generals and beautiful women.’

‘And I sometimes think that this rivalry between South and North is folly.’

‘I think so too, ma’am, like the difference between Ireland and England.’

‘Ah, but they’re two different countries.’

‘And we must strive to see that South and North do not become two different nations.’

‘That we must!’ one of the businessmen cried.

Clay reached for the silver bell resting at Paul Steed’s elbow and rang it. When Tiberius appeared, he asked, ‘Good Tiberius, could you bring glasses for the ladies?’ When this was done, and the wine had been passed, Clay proposed a toast. ‘I have rarely talked with more sensible citizens than those gathered here tonight.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you a citizen, Mrs. Steed?’

‘For many years,’ she said.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, to the Union!’

They drank in silence, all in the room looking over the rims of their glasses at this extraordinary man who had made himself a symbol of all those forces which were striving to hold the nation together: Clay the Compromiser, Clay the man who came to listen.

In the morning, as he walked slowly down to the wharf, he told Steed, ‘Getting your railroad will not be easy. Our first priority is to finish the rails to Chicago.’

‘Then?’

‘I can look only one year ahead, Steed. I’m always terrified by the next twelve months.’

The Paxmores, of course, were never invited to social affairs at Rosalind’s Revenge, and this was understandable, for their attitude toward
slavery was so at variance with that of the planters, neither side would have felt comfortable. The slaveowners, being gentlemen, would hesitate to irritate the Quakers by reciting the problems encountered in trying to manage slaves economically, whereas the Quakers, not being gentlemen, would have no reluctance in heckling the slave people about the moral inconsistencies in the system.

‘It’s almost as if they reject the established law of the land,’ Paul complained, and Susan replied, ‘They feed their prejudices on that foul literature sent down from Boston and New York. They simply refuse to accept the testimony of their own eyes.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Such as the way nine hundred slaves live with us in harmony.’

She had identified the tragic difference that separated the two families: the Steeds pointed to their well-run plantation and believed that it compensated for horror camps like Herman Cline’s, while the Paxmores pointed to one horror camp on the Little Choptank and judged it to counterbalance the hundreds of well-run plantations. There was not much meeting of minds.

The difficulty Paul Steed had foreseen arose after the Paxmores had purchased a subscription to
The Liberator
and demanded that Mr. Cater deliver it to them, something he was forbidden to do. Therefore, whenever the steamboat from Baltimore arrived with editions of either the
New York Tribune
or
The Liberator,
he had burned them—‘No sedition in Patamoke.’

When George Paxmore satisfied himself that United States mail was being destroyed, he protested, but Cater warned him, ‘Friend Paxmore, you don’t seem to realize I’m acting in your defense. Suppose I hand you the papers? And advise the sheriff? Off you go to jail.’

The Paxmores lodged a protest in Annapolis, and were advised: ‘Postmaster Cater is obeying the law.’ They wrote to the Postmaster General in Washington, who tossed their complaint to an underling, who answered: ‘Those at the North can insist that we carry their mail to the South, and this we do, but it is understandable if southern postmasters burn it in conformance to local law.’

This reply so outraged the Paxmores that they sought final arbitrament from that unflagging champion of New England rectitude, John Quincy Adams, once President of the Union, now its principal defender in Congress. He had been looking for just such a case to exploit, and dispatched an investigator, a gentleman from Illinois, to verify the Paxmores’ charges. The marshal, an anti-slavery man, returned to Washington with proof that the postmaster had been burning United States mail.

A scandal might have resulted, because Adams, a cantankerous, mutton-chopped old warrior of eighty-one, was determined to fight such impropriety. This was not necessary. A compromise was arranged whereby Postmaster Cater was removed from his job at Patamoke and
offered a much better one by the patriots of South Carolina, where he continued to burn any mail he considered seditious.

His departure had a strange aftermath. When Cudjo gained his freedom, he moved into Patamoke and started a business of his own. He was a carpenter, a mechanic, a boatbuilder, a fixer, a gardener, an extra hand on boats tonging oysters. He was offered a permanent job at Paxmore’s boatyard, but he had such an insatiable desire for freedom that he wanted to be his own boss, even though that meant occasional periods of slack employment.

Since Eden continued to work at Rosalind’s Revenge, so as to be close to crippled Susan, a curious household developed. For about two weeks of every month Eden lived with Cudjo in the shack in Patamoke, helping to raise their two sons; then she would board one of the Steed boats and go back to Devon for a couple of weeks, and it was during one of these trips that Paul Steed told her, ‘Eden, now that you and Cudjo are free, you’ve got to take a last name.’ This was a reasonable suggestion in that the possession of such a name was one of the marks of a freed black, but neither Eden nor Cudjo had ever had a name.

‘I got no idea,’ Eden said.

At the moment she spoke Paul happened to be looking at a letter and was irritated to think that the Paxmores had been able to embarrass a postmaster who had been doing such a good job. Then the idea came to him: ‘Eden, Mr. Cater was moved south. His name is needed no more.’

So Cudjo and Eden became the Caters, and whenever the Steeds mentioned the name, it reminded them of their antagonism to the Paxmores.

Paul Steed tried three times to lure Daniel Webster to Devon, and to do so was important, for in the fight for the railroad, support from the great New Englander was essential. He was the most powerful man in the Senate and commanded the most faithful following among the leaders of industry.

He was too busy with governmental matters to make the long journey from Washington, even though it was understood that Steed would send the plantation boat to fetch him. And then one day, unannounced, a Mr. Walgrave from New Hampshire appeared at the island with exciting news: ‘If you could see your way clear to invite to the meeting these gentlemen …’ And he handed Paul a list of names representing the most prosperous businessmen of the Eastern Shore, Delaware and Baltimore.

‘I would be proud to invite such men,’ Steed said. ‘But would they come?’ And Mr. Walgrave, a small fussy man who spoke in whispers, said, ‘I think they might be interested in talking directly with the senator. I think you’ll find them receptive.’

‘If you feel so certain,’ Paul said in some perplexity, ‘why doesn’t Senator Webster himself …’

‘Oh no!’ Walgrave whispered. ‘That would be highly improper. But if the invitation came from you …’

‘I’ll certainly try,’ Paul said. ‘This railroad …’

‘Oh!’ the New Hampshire man said, ‘you’ll find the senator most interested in railroads. Yes, indeed.’

So the invitations went out, and almost every man who received one replied that he would indeed like a chance to visit with the great senator. Arrangements were made to sleep the visitors in all parts of the mansion, in the office and even in two overseers’ cottages freshened up for the occasion. Guests began arriving two days before the scheduled conference, and maps were placed at convenient places for study of the intended routes. There was much talk about a spur that would tie into a ferry to Baltimore, the men from that city insisting that trade be siphoned there rather than north to Philadelphia, and concessions were quickly agreed upon.

On the day prior to the meeting, Mr. Walgrave appeared, all blandness and confidential whispers. He assured each man that Daniel Webster was crossing the bay to see him personally, because the senator had such high regard for that man’s business judgment, and he spent the evening germinating enthusiasm for the arrival of the great man.

At breakfast he outlined, in his soft voice, what the procedure of the day must be, and at ten, when the boat came up the creek, he was at the wharf leading the cheering party. ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ he cried, encouraging the slaves waiting to catch the ropes to join in.

When the steamboat tied up, Mr. Walgrave was first aboard, and after deckhands had moved ashore with the luggage, he cried—whispering no longer—‘Here comes Senator Webster!’ And from the cabin stepped a burly man with a huge, balding head, piercing eyes and dark cavities below his cheekbones. His mouth turned down in a perpetual sneer, and like an emperor he strode to the gangway, descended to the wharf and moved forward briskly to shake hands with his host.

‘My good friend Steed,’ he cried to a man he had never before met, ‘how fine of you to meet our little boat.’ He shook hands solemnly, passed along to each of the welcoming committee, stood for a moment enraptured by the prospect, and said in a deep rumbling voice that seemed to echo among the trees, ‘Gentlemen, I am eager to talk railroads.’

In the session before lunch he was overpowering, not because of his voice, which he kept low, and not because of his massive form, which he moved little, but solely because he was a man of compelling intellect. A planter from across the Choptank would start almost humbly to explain the advantages of having a railroad …

‘Mr. Stallworthy, you need not hesitate with me. I have no constituent
in Massachusetts whose business does not profit because of the railroad. I believe that every American industry …’ His syllables rolled out magnificently, carrying with them a sense of conviction which heartened his listeners.

And he mastered data. If someone spoke of Baltimore’s vested interest in the Eastern Shore, Daniel Webster had the figures supporting this claim, and he became a more clever advocate than the Baltimorean. He was a businessman himself, ingrained in the processes of buying and selling. But in the session after the noonday meal he displayed the other aspect of his policy: ‘It is essential, I believe, that we construct every possible railroad line running north and south, for these are the sinews that will bind our nation together.’

When he began to expatiate upon the problems of the Union, he spoke like a god, and Steed reflected on the fact that he was so persuasive in his personal commitments, whereas Henry Clay had been so aloof and intellectual. ‘We need them both,’ he muttered to himself as Webster forged ahead, brushing aside difficulties which Steed knew could not be so easily disposed of.