The Furies (16 page)

Amanda let her heavy eyelids close. She opened them suddenly at the midwife’s cry.

“Ah, Jesus have mercy! She’s gotten rid of everything but she’s still bleeding—”

Don Refugio’s white-haired head bobbed above Amanda. He laid a dry hand on her sticky forehead. Suddenly her loins felt thick again—Serafina had thrust her right hand and forearm into her and was massaging vigorously to stop a warm flow she could feel on her legs.

The midwife grunted anxiously as she worked. At last she withdrew her red hand, disappeared, and once more Amanda heard the sound of flesh being plunged into water.

Presently Serafina returned. She stood immobile, her gaze focused between Amanda’s legs.

After what seemed like hours, she nodded.

“The bleeding has stopped.” For the first time, she allowed herself a smile. “You can sleep now, señora.”

“I—I’d like to see the baby—”

“All right, but only a moment.” She swung toward the darkness. “Step lively, Padre!”

Amanda heard sandals scraping stone; Don Refugio obeyed the midwife just as any novice would have obeyed a superior.

“You’ve had babies before,” Serafina declared, moving up beside Amanda’s torso and rearranging the cloth that had shifted away from her left nipple.

“None—that lived. I want this child to live.”

“Oh, I think he will. He’s a hefty one.”

“He?” Amanda repeated. “A boy?”

“From every observable sign,” the older woman said with a wry smile. “What will you call him?”

Drowsily, Amanda answered, “Luis, I think. Luis Kent. Only spelled”—she labored for a breath—“American fashion—with an “o” in the first name.”

Louis Kent. How good that sounded! Then she thought of something else.
Now there’s someone to carry on the family. I can take him with me if I ever go back to Boston. I can show him where his grandfather and great-grandfather lived
—
and teach him to be proud he’s a Kent.

“Louis, eh?” The midwife sniffed. Amanda barely heard.

Now that I have him, I
will
go back. We’ll go back together
—

“Louis—well, I suppose that’s all right. Though everyone these days is naming their newborns after the men who fell at the mission. I’d have thought you might pick a hero’s name too.”

“I—did. The baby’s father—was with the Mexican army—”

“Ah yes, I heard they held you captive for a while.”

“He—could have killed—a great many. But he didn’t—”

“Well, the decision’s yours. Why the baby was named will soon be forgotten anyway. Your people and mine, we’re no longer much different, it seems. We’re all citizens of the republic. Living under the new republican flag with that one star. Judging by the way the voting went in October, I might even be an American presently. It’s a remarkable world—”

She whirled to the shadows.

“It’s about time, Pad—Mother of God, keep the feet covered!
Covered!
”

“My profound apologies,” the priest murmured, surrendering the child to the midwife. “I’m a mere man—”

“That’s quite apparent, I’m sorry to say.” Serafina in turn handed the small warm bundle to Amanda. Then the midwife and the priest stood gazing downward, their shoulders touching and their banter forgotten.

Fighting sleepiness, Amanda lifted a corner of a rag aside and stared at the slitted eyes, the wrinkled pink flesh, the mouth that sucked air noisily. Suddenly she clutched the little boy tight against her breast.

“In God’s name handle him gently!” Serafina said. “You’ll suffocate the poor thing.”

But Amanda clutched her newborn fiercely, feeling him squirm, then hearing him squall.

What a strange turn of events, she thought, remembering the tiny kernel Sam Houston had dropped into her hand beneath the oak at San Jacinto. He hadn’t known—nor had she—that an entirely different kind of seed would germinate from the war’s bloody ground. A seed that would yield this miracle of living flesh within her arms, give her a purpose—a new reason for going on when it seemed that all the rest of her reasons had been destroyed—

The future no longer terrified her because of its emptiness, its uncertainty. Let the wolf run; she wasn’t afraid.

Louis Kent howled louder. She had never heard such a sweet, sweet sound—

Serafina slapped her hips. “Merciful heaven, Padre, I give up. Now she’s crying too!”

A
PRIL THE 30TH
. ARRIVED
in New York City after a wearying journey by coach, my annual stipend not being large enough to permit riding the rail roads. I have joined my brethren here for General Conference. Am stopping at a modest hotel where the appointments are few but clean, though of course the establishment cannot compare with other local hostelries. Adjoining one of its rooms, The New York Hotel has installed a separate, private facility for the purpose of bathing—or so I was told by my companion, the Reverend Hodding, with whom I took a brief walking tour late this afternoon.

Hodding is a pleasant, if opinionated, fellow. He itinerates in the vicinity of Chester County, Pennsylvania. We compared our situations, which are not essentially different, except in one regard. Freedom for the enslaved Negro is a goal much sought by Hodding, as well as by many of those to whom he ministers.

I in turn attempted to present Hodding with the views of those Christian men and women I have served the past two years from my location at Lexington, in Virginia’s valley of the Shenandoah. But I did not press a strong personal view upon him. I have none. Whenever I think on the subject, I end in a quandry.

As evidence of the moral failure of our own Church, Hodding spoke scornfully of the treatment accorded men and women of color at Lovely Lane in Baltimore, where the “Afric” may sit nowhere but the balcony, and receives the sacrament only after it has been served to white persons. He also mentioned St. George’s in Philadelphia, where Negroes must hold their own services at an hour different from that at which the whites worship. Clearly my companion is one of those enraged by the failure of the Methodist Episcopal Church to declare a position on the slave issue; twice during our stroll, he repeated Mr. Wesley’s claim that the system of black bondage in this nation is “the vilest that ever saw the sun.”

I continued to refrain from argumentation because, as I noted, I am not sure of my own heart—and also because I cannot d—n out of hand those whom I serve in Virginia. To do so, I would have to d—n the very woman with whom God has favored me, blessing our union with Gideon—

Gideon. A splendid little boy! I must not overlook his coming birthday. I must take a trinket home.

Before we parted, Hodding insisted the Conference would address the slavery question. I pray not. Such disputation can only lead to divisiveness of the sort which has already led the Reverend Orange Scott of Lowell to withdraw from the Methodist connection.

I fear a confrontation, and wonder why. Is it because there is epic risk of fostering ill will within the Church? Or is it because I know that, if forced to search my own conscience, I will find a lack of personal conviction?

Later.
Prayed an hour for guidance, but remain as worried and uncertain as before.

May the 1st.
One hundred and seventy-eight pastors have gathered. As the proceedings commenced, I was restored and refreshed by the preaching and the singing. How good to hear those stout voices inquiring of each other’s welfare as the opening hymn, “And Are We Yet Alive?”, soared forth.

Bishop Soule, occupying the chair for the opening session, sounded a warning to those who would disturb our work among the people of color. Their souls are for saving but all else is beyond us, the bishop declared in his address. “To raise them up to equal civil rights and privileges is not within our power. Let us not labor in vain and spend our strength for naught.”

His remarks produced a few dark looks up and down the benches, but no open dissent. I trust the Bishop’s admonition will be heeded for the sake of the Church’s tranquility and, I shamefully admit, mine.

May the 2nd.
A quiet day. Another walking tour late in the afternoon. Even though I twice visited Boston while a student at the Biblical Institute in Vermont, the splendor and squalor of New York City far surpass anything I have beheld elsewhere.

There are a great many Irish present, and more arriving by ship each month. Simply by listening to street conversation, one is made aware of the animosity directed toward them. A Mr. Harper, a book publisher like my great-grandfather, is to run for mayor here. Harper is what is called a reform candidate, for the city’s affairs are in disorder and badly need setting straight. Whether Mr. Harper is dedicated to that task remains questionable, since I was informed that his partisans are preparing banners bearing a campaign appeal that seems to have little to do with reform, and everything to do with stirring hatred of the slum Irish. The slogan is, “No Popery!” Let us hope the campaign will not produce the sort of anti-Catholic rioting which recently struck Philadelphia.

Obtained an edition of Mr. Greeley’s
Tribune
, which contains this remarkable information—the railroad trackage within the country now totals close to four thousand miles, with more being laid all the time as new lines open. The United States has several times the trackage of the entire continent of Europe, the paper says. “Thou
art
the God that doest wonders!”

May the 3rd.
Today, Friday, the cataclysm is upon us. The sectional quarrel which has inflamed tempers in Congress and the press has reached even here. The Conference to which the Reverend Orange Scott formerly belonged put forward a petition opposing slavery, whereupon the meeting erupted into shouting of a most unseemly sort.

The chair has appointed a Committee on Slavery to accept other memorials on the same subject. Hodding told me such petitions are sure to come, then went on to confirm a suspicion I have not uttered or written before, though many of my southern brethren have expressed it to me:

The antislavery delegates are operating according to a plan drawn long before we assembled. The ultimate target of the strategy is the worthy and well-regarded Bishop James Andrew of Georgia, whose sin is this: he is the unhappy possessor of a mulatto girl and a Negro boy, neither of which he purchased. Both were bequeathed to him in the estate of his first wife. His second wife is also the inheritor of slaves. Under Georgia law, neither the bishop nor his spouse can manumit the slaves.

When Hodding mentioned Andrew in a most challenging way, then asked my opinion on what should be done, I once again took refuge in excuses that hide my own equivocation. I said I did not feel qualified to take part in any general debate, being among the most recently ordained of all those gathered; I became a pastor not quite two years ago. I said I felt doubly unqualified by reason of age, having just observed my twenty-fourth birthday.

Did Hodding suspect my evasion? His smirk made me believe so.

Later.
I thought much of my beloved wife Fan, and of our son. I asked myself what the antislavery delegates would offer Fan’s father, Captain Tunworth of Lexington, as well as her numerous relatives in South Carolina, in return for the black labor on which they depend. That, it seems to me, is one of the sticking-places:

Even many in the south accept the fact that the peculiar institution is, in a great number of respects, inhumane. But abolitionist agitators such as Mr. Garrison of Boston, whose
Liberator
newspaper insists upon full freedom for Negroes, never propose any plan by means of which the southern agriculturist can replace his Negro labor. And without the labor, there is no prosperity for those who cultivate the land. The snare is a cruel one, since human beings north or south are not prone to abandon that which fosters their survival.

At supper, we fell into a heated discussion of one alternative to slavery which has been proposed for nearly thirty years by the Colonization Society—namely, the freeing and resettlement of the Negro in Liberia. Hodding bitterly chastised several of the more moderate brethren who favor this idea. He said the scheme is based on an unspoken belief that the Negro is inferior to the white—and will somehow contaminate the nation with his continued presence. Hodding then proceeded to put a theological cast on the subject.

John Wesley, the beloved Asbury, Coke—the pillars of our faith—were unequivocal about the absolutes of good and evil. Good and evil are the fixed stars in our struggle as itinerants. Our aim is, first, conversion—admission of sin—and then redemption: the eradication of human wickedness through the grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ. No one could disagree with those extremities, and the lack of a middle ground. Then Hodding closed the trap.

If there is no middle ground in our theology, so there can be none regarding the slave question. If slavery is acknowledged an evil, it must be destroyed, just as confessed sin is overcome by redemptive love for Christ. Several shouted at Hodding—one subject, they cried, is spiritual, the other temporal! Hodding sees no difference; he sees, in fact, an irrefutable connection.

I sat silent throughout. Hodding’s logic troubled me sorely, but not as much as the intemperate speech of my brethren on both sides of the argument. It seems to me the affair of Bishop Andrew is exacerbating tempers to a dangerous degree.

May the 10th.
A resolution has been put forward “affectionately” requesting Bishop Andrew to resign his office. And a curious thing has occurred—the use of the word “slavery” has become infrequent in our sessions. Andrew’s alleged transgression has somehow been transmuted into a question of Church authority: whose will is paramount? That of the General Conference? Or that of the bishops?

It is a screen, nothing more. The fundamental issue is Andrew’s ownership of black men and women.

Screen or no, Bishop Soule today sounded another, even more dire warning. He said that permitting the Conference to remove Andrew without a proper ecclesiastical trial would rend the organization of the Church “beyond repair.”