Douglass’ Women (33 page)

When I felt downcast, I reminded myself that Rosetta and Anna have less of you than I do.

“Recognizing not sex nor physical strength, but
moral intelligence and the ability to discern right
from wrong, good from evil … I was not long
in reaching the conclusion that there was no
foundation in reason or justice for woman’s
exclusion from the vote.”

No, it didn’t take you long to herald the cause of women. I’d a hand in this. For wasn’t I the first woman to argue with you as an equal? To challenge your interest with my mind? Long before the body. Confessions of love. Remember, Douglass?

“Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, when she was
yet a young lady and an earnest abolitionist, she
was at the pains of setting before me in a very
strong light the wrong and injustice of this
exclusion.”

Youth, beauty, and intelligence. I’d grown less youthful,
less beautiful. My mind remains. Unfortunately, in America, in this world, time blunts the appeal of a woman’s thoughts. Why does intellect seem sharper when one’s face is unlined?

“What can be said of the gifted authoress of
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, Harriet Beecher Stowe?
Happy woman must she be that to her was given
the power in such unstinted measure to touch and
move the popular heart! More than to reason or
religion are we indebted to the influence which this
wonderful delineation of slavery produced on the
public mind.”

“More than to reason or religion …” Douglass didn’t really care about religious hypocrites. But, oh, how it bothered him that emotion, not reason, won the day! “To touch and move the popular heart …” Didn’t anyone but me understand the condescension?

“Nor were all my influential friends all of the
Caucasian race. While many of my own people
thought me unwise and somewhat fanatical in
announcing myself a fugitive slave, there were
brave and intelligent men of color all over the
United States who gave me their cordial
sympathy and support
.

“I need not name my colored friends to whom I am thus indebted. They do not desire such mention… .”

Why was Douglass so sure? Would it have hurt to speak gratitude? Or, maybe, he didn’t speak it, because there’d be no gain. White women opened their purses.

I ought to go home. But where to?

“In a word, I have never yet been able to find
one consideration, one argument, or suggestion in
favor of man’s right to participate in civil
government which did not equally apply to the
right of woman.”

Frederick Douglass was indeed a great man. How sorry I was to love him.

“Who will remember me?”

—A
NNA
D
OUGLASS,
ON HER DEATHBED
, 1882

“My brothers and I. Our children
and our children’s children.”

—R
OSETTA
D
OUGLASS,
ANSWERING HER
MOTHER
, 1882

Rochester

Mister Death be playing hide and seek with me. Some days I could barely stand. Barely get out of a chair once I sat down. I was growing older with the children. Except life be new for them; for me, it be just Time. Time be Mister Death’s cousin. Liked to play tricks. When everything happy, Time flew fast. But with me, Time made a minute seem an hour, an hour seem a day. Telling the same tale. Same story. Not a bad story, just the same one. Caring and tending to life. Be it the children, the garden, or my chickens out back. As my body slowed, Time slowed, seemed like life needed me less. Or wanted me less. My garden, on its own, bloomed fine. My chicks ran wild.

Rosetta had already gone to Oberlin. The boys were ready for trades. Fine, educated boys. “But they must learn a trade,” I’d say. I worried they were too proud. Too proud to take off their coats and chop wood. Too proud to get dirty, work among laborers. They kept saying they be Frederick Douglass’ sons. As though that made life easier. “They still colored,” I say.

Rosetta say, “I want to teach.” That be fine. She could teach colored children. Teach her babies book-learning. Unlike me.

I’d like to read
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
.

Annie reads it to me. She be my dream child. If it weren’t for her, I’d tell Cousin Time, “Stop fooling. Tell Mister Death to come on.” But Annie, by her own self, could make Time fly with happiness.

I told Freddy he could do what he wanted with the other children. But Annie, my late-in-life child, I’d school as Mam schooled me. I insisted Pastor teach her letters. Freddy thought I didn’t understand the importance of learning. But I did. My children lived in a different world.

With Rosetta gone, the boys at school, making mischief like boys do, me and Annie made a pair. We sang spirituals. She read me the Bible. We cooked. Gardened. Told each other tales. Sometimes I felt scared at how happy I be. Eleven years, Annie’d been in my life. Eleven years, she’d never left home. Never wanted to go. Yet, that didn’t mean she wasn’t interested in
doing
, in living life full.

Annie was always up under me. Curious. Wanting to know how to make fancy cakes, not plain cakes, how to snip flowers and feed them syrup-water to make them last longer. How to starch curtains so they flapped like angel’s wings. How to make a seed ball for birds to eat in winter.
“How do you? How do you?”
Questions until my head tired. It be Annie who kissed my brow, brought a blanket when I was cold. Annie—young enough not to be embarrassed saying, “I love you, Mam.”

It be Annie who brought life home from the wild forest. A twig with a spider’s web. A leaf with a cocoon attached. Ants in a box, burrowing in dirt.

It be Annie who wanted to know the old tales: horn-footed devil, skeletons in the sea, spirits of the dead. Even though Mam’s dead, she ain’t dead. I pointed out the star I thought she’d be. The breeze that flapped the curtain when we were stirring grits. “Sometimes,” I told Annie, “Mam be the ladybug, pausing on the porch step.”

In the afternoon, me and Annie rocked in our chairs. Content not to say nothing. Just enjoy the day. After a while, all the animals came visiting. Butterflies hovered. A buck and doe wandered onto the grass. An eagle glided past the roof; we could see its blinking eye. Annie liked ladybugs best. I told her they be good luck if they landed on you. Never told her the old rhyme: “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire, your children are gone.” Seem like we went through that. Before Annie was born.

Annie be the good luck child. No sorrow in her. The promise of a summer morn.

Annie reminded me of me. Before I became a housekeeper. Before I Miz Frederick Douglass.

Freddy didn’t argue when I insisted Annie stay home. Maybe he afraid another white woman schoolteacher send his second girl home too! Maybe he tired from supporting five children and a wife. Cheaper for Annie to stay home. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t back down. Maybe he knew he owed me for years and years of lonely days.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad Annie stayed. I needed her more than she needed me.

“Douglass was going to lose all
because of one unthinking white man.”

—O
TTILIE
A
SSING,
DIARY ENTRY
, 1859

“John Brown was a martyr.”

—F
REDERICK
D
OUGLASS,
NEWSPAPER EDITORIAL
, 1861

Rochester

John Brown will get you killed,” I told Douglass. “He’ll get you killed.”

The two had been meeting regularly. Sometimes in Boston, sometimes in Rochester. I distrusted Brown from the start. Ascetic, thin beyond pleasing, rangy and tall. Some say he looks like the politician Lincoln. Except Lincoln has warmth in his eyes. Brown’s eyes are ice. Stone cold.

“Don’t you see how Brown is using you?”

“I’m a grown man of intelligence, Ottilie.”

“I’m not questioning your intelligence. I’m questioning Brown’s.” Indeed, I shuddered when Brown raised his Bible high into the air, proclaiming, “God’s will. Killing to free the slaves is God’s will. Look to the Israelites.”

If Papa was alive, he’d argue history shouldn’t dictate present actions. Papa and Mama both believed in the healing power of love. But what offended me most was Brown’s proclamation, “I am the black people’s Moses.” Such arrogance. Moses, the black driver I first met in America, was more special than this lunatic Brown.

I caressed Douglass’ arm. “Don’t you see? Militancy will make it harder for the slaves.”

“How long, Ottilie? How long? Over twenty years, I’ve been working to free the slaves. Over a hundred years, black bodies have been sold, bartered, and exchanged. Violence may be necessary.”

“This isn’t like you.”

“How do you know? This
is
me. Angry. Irate. Disgusted by the slow pace. Politics, appealing to whites’ better nature has no effect.”

“Come, Douglass. Let me soothe you.”

He looked at me so angrily, I stepped back.

I’d risked the journey to see Douglass in winter, because my body missed him. I’d risked the journey because I’d heard Brown was in New England enlisting supporters and their money for his “holy war.” I’d risked the journey because only a few months ago, Douglass (foolishly!) let Brown stay in his home and write a new constitution for a free slave territory. I’d risked the journey because I needed him. Needed Douglass to keep himself safe.

“Don’t you see? Anti-Brown supporters have already burnt your home, threatened your children. Don’t you see? Violence begets violence.”

“Wouldn’t you be as militant for the suffragette cause?”

“Picketing isn’t the same as raising a gun.”

“Brown understands the pain of black people.”

“Nonsense.”

Douglass’ sigh was a moan. The sound was wrenched from him. “It makes sense to me.”

“What?”

“It makes sense to me. Just as I fought Covey, Brown is encouraging the race to rise up.”

“Douglass—”

“Sssh, Ottilie.” He kissed me tenderly.

“You’re tired. You look tired,” I said.

“Yes. Bone-weary. Heartsore. Every breath I take as a free man is borne on the backs of slaves. How can I enjoy freedom? Twenty years. I’ve talked myself hoarse. Twenty years. No change. I think Miss Tubman does more with her Underground Railroad than I’ve ever done.”

“Not true.”

He clasped me in his arms. I could feel his strength, almost crushing me, taking my breath away. I caressed his hair. “Douglass, Douglass,” I said.

He pulled back. Tears were in his eyes. “War, Ottilie. There’ll be war.”

“If there is, let the president be the one to start it. Not Brown. He only wants to be a martyr.”

“Don’t we all.”

“What are you saying?” I shuddered. “You’re not planning anything foolish?”

“No more foolish than a white man capturing slaves. No more foolish than another white man believing he’s their savior.”

He blinked like a curtain drawn, a scene shift in a play. He blinked. Firelight shone in his eyes. He blinked and became a shadow of himself.

He picked up his coat and gloves. “I must go. Anna isn’t well.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Tasted blood. I wanted to shout, “Stay!” Instead I said, “Give her my regards.”

Head cocked, face blank, he replied, “I’ll do that.” Then, he opened the door and left.

I stood, shocked and still, in a hotel room. Snow fell
outside and I could imagine Douglass, ever proud, walking to his carriage. Only later did I find the money he’d left beneath the tea service. It made me feel like an unused whore.

John Brown. Such a simple name. Anything but a simple man
.

John Brown built a shack in the Carolinas. Whispered to free black men, whispered to slaves, “Armageddon is here.”
Oh, what an uprising he planned. Nothing less than the murder of every slave owner. Including their wives and children.
“Everyone who participates in slavery is a sinner. Wrath to all of them.”

Wrath. John Brown thought he was God’s wrath. The sin of pride he had
.

“Hills will keep us safe. A single man can hold off a hundred in the hills.”
So, the slaves believed. Some equipped with picks, shovels. Some with guns.

This was the story as I’d heard it:

John Brown led a raid on Harpers Ferry, Virginia. But before that, there’d been warnings. In Kansas, bloody Kansas, the ground ran red. He fought to keep slavery out of the territory.

In Kansas, John Brown shot a man to death. With a broadsword, he hacked to bits two others. They say, “Pieces were licked and chewed by the dogs.” Cruel. Barbaric beyond measure.