Candle in the Darkness (14 page)

Robert was a terrible dancer. He held me awkwardly, and he kept treading on my toes, repeating, “Sorry . . . sorry.” I didn’t care. Each time another gentleman tried to cut in, Robert would proudly say, “Sorry, Miss Fletcher has promised all of her dances to me.”

I hid in Robert’s shadow for the remainder of the social season, knowing I would have to come up with a new strategy once he left for West Point. When that day finally arrived, Julia and I went with his parents to see his ship off at Penn’s Landing.

“Promise me you won’t marry someone else while I’m away?” he begged. He looked as somber as a soldier leaving for battle. I laughed at his sweaty earnestness.

“Don’t worry. Rosalie would murder me if I dared to find a husband before she did.” As he steamed away, gazing mournfully from the ship’s rail, I wondered how I would ever get along without him. I decided to ask Rosalie for advice.

“For goodness’ sakes, Caroline. I can’t imagine feeling tonguetied when I’m dancing with a suitor.” I had broached the question as Rosalie sat at our dressing table, primping for a round of afternoon social calls. She took forever to get ready, and since there was only one mirror in our room, Julia and I rarely got more than a glimpse of ourselves. That day, I decided to stand behind Rosalie and peer around her as we both brushed our hair. She gazed at my reflection with pity.

“But your shyness is beside the point,” she continued. “The unwritten rules of etiquette say that proper young ladies mustn’t talk too much in the first place. We’re supposed to
draw
the conversation out of our gentlemen.”

“How do I do that? The only man I’ve ever talked to for any length of time is Robert. And he never runs out of famous battles to discuss.”

“Don’t judge all men by Robert.” She dismissed him with a toss of her head and a flip of her hand. “Most men’s favorite subject is themselves. Ask them a few questions, toss in a few
ooh
s and
ahh
s, and I guarantee they’ll simply go on and on about themselves. You’ll be lucky to get a word in sideways.”

I tried her advice at the very next opportunity. Before the young man had a chance to say a word, I said, “Tell me about yourself.” He didn’t stop until the music did.

Along with their busy round of social obligations, my aunt and her family also faithfully attended worship services in one of Philadelphia’s beautiful churches. It was the socially expected thing to do, the proper place to be seen—and a very lucrative place to engage in husband-hunting. The family pew had belonged to the Hoffmans since before the Revolutionary War, and pity the poor visitor who mistakenly sat there on a Sunday morning. Their church was very much like ours back home: the same hard, boxy pews; the same slow, somber organ music; the same stained-glass windows with their bronze plaques honoring generous donors; the same flowery oratory in the pastors’ sermons, quietly lulling everyone to sleep.

Sometimes, in unguarded moments, I would recall the slaves’ midnight worship service out in the woods behind the plantation, remembering its joy-filled music and Eli’s heart-stirring sermon, and I’d almost wish I could go back there to clap and dance and sing about Massa Jesus. I’d promised Eli that I wouldn’t forget all the lessons he shared with Grady and me, but after more than a year in Philadelphia, those memories were already fading like scenes glimpsed at sunset.

Then one Sunday morning the entire congregation was suddenly jolted awake. A new minister, fresh out of Yale Divinity School, arrived to fill in for our venerable old pastor who had taken ill. The young Reverend Nathaniel Greene shouted loudly enough to wake the dead in the churchyard, not to mention Aunt Martha. His sermon shook the chandeliers and the chancel rails and rattled the stained-glass saints and the drowsing deacons and dowagers. Blunt and raw, his wasn’t a pretty speech, but it was electrifying in its passion. He spoke as though he really meant every word, the way Eli used to talk about Massa Jesus, as if He were a real live person. Rev. Greene’s text from 1 Corinthians warned that the Lord “will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, make manifest the counsels of the hearts.”

“What really motivates us as we go about our daily affairs,” he asked. “Is it pride in our external appearance? The desire for wealth and recognition? Do any of us have a genuine desire to see the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms of our God and of His Christ? We might hide the dimly illuminated recesses of our hearts from ourselves and from each other,” Rev. Greene warned, “but the time is coming when God’s light will shine in the darkness, bringing our motives to light!”

Those words were chilling enough, especially when I guiltily recalled how preoccupied I’d become with my clothes and my appearance. But when the pastor gripped the pulpit and fixed us with his impassioned gaze, his next words were met with pin-drop silence. “I’m speaking about the issue of slavery. You are either in favor of its continuance in these United States of America, or you will fight against it with all your heart and mind and strength until it is abolished. There can be no middle ground, no neutral territory between what’s right and what’s wrong, just as there is no compromise between light and darkness. What motivates
you
?” he concluded. “It’s time to examine your heart. And then let’s be about our heavenly Father’s business.”

My aunt and uncle didn’t linger to socialize after the service— few people did. That’s how shaken we all felt.

“Well! That young man certainly won’t last long with our congregation,” Aunt Martha declared at the dinner table. “Imagine! Trying to tell us how to live! That’s not what church is for. Rosalie, pass the potatoes, please.”

“What is church for, dear?” Uncle Philip asked quietly.

“Why . . . why, it’s so that we will all feel uplifted, of course. It’s to remind us that God is love.”

“It seems to me that’s precisely what that young man tried to do today—to remind us that God loves the Negro race as much as He loves ours.”

Aunt Martha pushed her chair back, as if she was about to stand. “Don’t start with me, Philip. You know I dislike slavery as much as you do. I gladly left it all behind when I moved up here.”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” I heard Uncle Philip murmur.

I stared down at my plate of roast beef in shame. I’d managed to push all the injustices I’d witnessed from my mind, too, but they hadn’t gone away. I felt as though God was shining His light in my heart, just as Rev. Greene had warned, and I hated what I saw: cowardice.

“What we do outside of church is none of that young man’s business,” Aunt Martha concluded.

Uncle Philip gaped at her, his dinner roll halfway to his mouth. He seemed too stunned to speak.

“Mama,” Julia asked suddenly, “may I invite Rev. Greene to afternoon tea on Thursday?” Julia’s face wore the dreamy look she always got when she fell in love with a new beau. I guessed that she had now fallen for the young reverend. Had she even heard a word of her parents’ conversation? Or Rev. Greene’s stirring sermon? “

I think that would be a fine idea, Julia,” Uncle Philip said before my aunt could reply. “I understand that Rev. Greene is originally from New York State. He probably doesn’t know a soul here in Philadelphia.”

Nathaniel Greene was the sole topic of Julia’s conversation for the next four days. He had accepted her invitation to tea, creating the serious crisis of what she should wear for the occasion. I looked for a way to be excused from the event, terrified that he would see the darkness that was in my heart the moment he set eyes on me. But of course I was expected to attend—to keep Julia from going into a swoon if for no other reason.

“What’ll I talk about? What’ll I say? What if my mind goes blank?” she worried. She needn’t have. Rev. Greene descended from a long line of ministers and was well-practiced in the graceful art of taking afternoon tea with parishioners. He also had a subject that he never grew tired of discussing—abolition. It didn’t take Julia long to realize that if she kept to that topic, she would have his full attention.

“I simply can’t understand how people can
own
someone,” she said, pouring him a third cup of tea. Then she made her first mistake. “My cousin Caroline is from Virginia,” she said. “Her family owns slaves.”

“Really?” He turned his attention to me as if I was a fascinating new species from an exotic culture. With his smooth-cheeked, boyish face and reddish-blond hair, he looked much younger than twenty-five. He would have made a more convincing schoolboy in overalls, playing hooky from school, than a minister in a dark suit and clerical collar. He even had freckles, for goodness’ sake. But his first question unnerved me.

“I’d like to hear your view of slavery, Miss Fletcher.”

“My . . .
view
?”

I remembered my first view of Slave Row, of the ramshackle cabins with Caleb and the other little children playing outside in the dirt. Then I pictured the view from my bedroom window that terrible morning, the wagon full of slaves in chains, Grady screaming as the men dragged him away.

“It’s . . . it’s horrible . . .” I couldn’t finish. Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. I dug in my pockets for a handkerchief and couldn’t find one. Rev. Greene offered me his.

“Here . . . I’m so sorry, Miss Fletcher. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, patting it consolingly.

As I battled to regain control, Julia eyed me jealously. She seemed to be weighing the idea of bursting into tears herself, just so he would rest his freckled hand on her shoulder. In the end, she was wise enough to realize that the way to Nathaniel Greene’s heart was to become an ardent abolitionist herself.

“How did you become involved in this very worthy cause?” she asked him, passing the plate of tea cakes one more time. “Did you live down south yourself?”

“No, I first joined the New England Anti-Slavery Society when I was in college and—”

“I had no idea there was such an organization,” she chirped. “Might I join the society, too?”

He swiveled his full attention back to Julia. “Certainly, Miss Hoffman. We’d be pleased to have you. In fact, the American Anti-Slavery Society was founded right here in Philadelphia in 1833.”

“Why, I had no idea. What is it that the society does, exactly?”

“Well, you see, the Declaration of Independence proclaimed freedom and liberty for all men, yet the Negroes are still enslaved. It says all men are created equal, yet the Negroes don’t share that equality with whites. Slavery is a great evil, Miss Hoffman, and a curse to this great nation. It must be abolished. The Society believes it is our task to complete the unfinished work of the American Revolution.”

Julia appeared horrified. “You don’t mean going to
war
—with real
guns
and things!”

“Oh, no, no—nothing like that.” He pulled a square lump from his bulging jacket pocket. I had assumed it was a Bible, but it turned out to be a good-sized packet of abolitionist tracts. He peeled off two and passed them to Julia and me. “The Declaration of Sentiments, written in 1833, reads that our principles ‘forbid the doing of evil that good may come, and lead us to reject—and to entreat the oppressed to reject—the use of all carnal weapons for deliverance from bondage; relying solely upon those which are spiritual, and mighty through God . . . the destruction of error by the potency of truth—the overthrow of prejudice by the power of love—and the abolition of slavery by the spirit of repentance.’ ”

I stared at the words in disbelief. They were so similar to what Eli had told his fellow slaves—that they wouldn’t have to resort to violence, God would fight their battle for them. I wanted to learn more from Rev. Greene, but when I looked up, Julia was perched on the edge of her seat, gazing at him like a puppy with its master. I could see that he mistook her adoration as interest in abolition, especially when she said, “I would love to accompany you to one of your meetings sometime.”

Rev. Greene beamed at her. It wasn’t love I saw in his eyes but the excitement of a zealot who has just made a new convert. “There will be an anti-slavery lecture next week, in fact. It’s being held at the Quaker meetinghouse in Germantown. I’d be very happy to escort you—and Miss Fletcher, of course.”

I agreed to go, partly because I was genuinely interested, and partly because Julia never would have forgiven me if I hadn’t. Her father wouldn’t allow her to attend the lecture alone with an unmarried man, minister or not.

Uncle Philip let us take his carriage when the day finally arrived, and he instructed his driver to stop by the church to pick up Rev. Greene. The young reverend started lecturing us on abolition the moment he’d taken his seat beside Julia. His fanaticism reminded me of Robert’s devotion to the subject of war.

“Since you are new to this area, Miss Fletcher, you may not know the history of where we are going today. Germantown was settled in 1683 by a group of Quakers and Mennonites from Germany. Its residents published some of America’s first protests against slavery. Lucretia Mott, founder of the American Anti-Slavery Society, was a Quaker, and her husband organized free stores. Have you heard of those?”