Virginia Hamilton (11 page)

“But would not the Colonel consent to close the bargain before that?” asked Reverend Grimes. He,
of course, intended to buy Anthony's freedom.

Edward Parker replied, “I think not.”

Grimes then went to talk to Marshal Freeman, who referred him to the Colonel.

Colonel Suttle was polite. He spoke at length on the fact that he “owned Tony.” It amazed Reverend Grimes that this slave owner would talk to him so freely, as though he and Anthony Burns were not both blacks. Suttle went on to say that he had always treated Tony kindly and that Tony had a good character. But he would not consider selling his slave
before
the surrender. Next, Suttle left Grimes for a long conversation with his lawyer, Seth Thomas. Thomas then told Reverend Grimes that Suttle had agreed to sell his slave
before
the surrender was made.

Grimes was overjoyed.

“Between this time and ten o'clock tonight,” he said, “I'll have the money ready for you; have the emancipation papers ready for me at that hour.”

Reverend Grimes had no resources of his own. But as Ben Hallett had observed, he was an able fund-raiser. He spent hours going about the city getting pledges from as many people as he could. Some said they were not ready to contribute to the slave's freedom. Many, however, did pledge, and by seven o'clock in the evening, Grimes had pledges for eight hundred dollars. A broker on State Street advanced the money on this pledge, writing his check for the eight hundred dollars in the Marshal's office.

Grimes again went out and spent the rest of the evening trying to raise the last four hundred
dollars. Finally, a sympathetic gentleman lent him the money so that the transaction could go through.

By half past ten o'clock nothing was left to do but execute the bill of sale. Another half hour was taken up by a private talk between Colonel Suttle and his counsel. Then Grimes went one way and Suttle and his lawyers another, to reconvene at the private office of Commissioner Loring. Arrangements had already been made for Loring to draw up the papers.

When Judge Loring arrived, he proceeded to write the bill in these words:

Know all men by these present, that I, Charles F. Suttle, of Alexandria in Virginia, in consideration of twelve hundred dollars to me paid, do hereby release and discharge, quitclaim and convey to Anthony Burns his liberty; and I hereby manumit and release him from all claims and service to me forever, hereby giving him his liberty to all intents and effects forever. In testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand and seal, this twenty-seventh day of May, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-four.

The Commissioner sent for Marshal Freeman. The Marshal refused to come. Reverend Grimes' heart sank; now he was sorry he'd sent a messenger up to Anthony Burns to tell him to be ready in a few minutes, that he was leaving his jail.

Judge Loring gathered his papers. And with everyone following, he went to the
Marshal's office, where they found the Marshal and District Attorney Benjamin Hallett.

Hallett objected to the transaction on the grounds that twelve hundred dollars might be satisfactory for the Colonel but that there were other expenses—troops and guards, for example—that could only be settled by a trial of the fugitive. He said the government wouldn't pay a cent otherwise.

Judge Loring then read a portion of the Fugitive Slave Act, which he said made the government responsible.

“But there is an existing law of Massachusetts,” said Hallett, “which prohibits the transaction.” He began to recite it: “
Any person who shall sell, or in any manner transfer for any term, the service or labor of any negro, mulatto, or other person of color who shall have been unlawfully seized, taken, shall be punished by imprisonment of not more than ten years
.”

Commissioner Loring silenced Hallett. “That law you refer to is a law aimed not against selling a man into freedom,” he said, “but against selling him into
slavery.
The bill of sale for Anthony had been for his liberty, not his service or labor as specified by the Massachusetts law.

Ben Hallett smiled. It was not a pleasant smile, thought Reverend Grimes. It fairly put a chill around his shoulders.

“Too late, gentlemen,” said Hallett.

The Commissioner chose to ignore him. “Colonel, get this over with,” he said. “Sign this bill, please, and accept the payment.”

Ben Hallett stood very straight, looking at the clock.

“Gentlemen,” he said again. “It is after twelve. See for yourselves, look at the clock.
s Colonel Suttle's signature will never be legal. Sunday has commenced.”

All looked at the clock. The hands showed a quarter past twelve. According to Massachusetts law, no business could be transacted on Sunday. Reverend Grimes closed his eyes and said a prayer for Anthony Burns.

Judge Loring gathered up his papers again and turned to Mr. Grimes. “It can be done at eight o'clock on Monday morning,” he said kindly. “Come to my office then, and it can be settled in five minutes.”

Mr. Grimes turned away in utter disappointment. Exhausted now, he had worked so hard, and for nothing. And Anthony—poor Anthony Burns! Grimes had a carriage waiting at the door of the Court House to bear Anthony away to freedom. Now he asked the Marshal for permission to see Mr. Burns and relieve him of the suspense of waiting in vain for his friends to come.

The Marshal refused. “I shall tell him myself,” he said.

There was nothing for Reverend Grimes to do but dismiss the cab. He did this and then went home, feeling sad and defeated.

13
May 28, 1854

SUNDAY CAME ALL TOO
soon, with still more rumors. It was said that the Federal government
had sent telegrams that did not favor Anthony Burns' release. Reverend Grimes, hearing this, was fearful of what would happen next.

“THE MAN IS NOT BOUGHT!”
a new handbill circulating on Sunday screamed at the public. “He Is Still In The Slave Pen In The Court House.
Be on your guard against all lies
. Watch The Slave Pen. Let every man attend the trial. Remember Monday morning at 11 o'clock.”

Sunday church services had commenced all over Boston. In the immense music hall, Tremont Temple, the Reverend Theodore Parker was about to begin his services. He had no pulpit and no altar, only a desk where he sat and watched as the people filed in.

Today there would be not only the Massachusetts congregation in Tremont Temple to hear him, but Southerners as well. Through a note they had informed him they were present. The Southerners, some friends of the Colonel's, others from Harvard, had come to hear what he would say against slavery.

Parker grinned. Everyone would go away this
day with something new to think about.

When the church was full, he stood and stepped forward to begin the morning service. As he looked around, he noticed that people were standing. Chairs had been placed in the aisles. Hundreds, it seemed, had not been able to get inside. But now there was silence. The great space of the hall with its double tier of galleries might have been empty as he spoke.

“Since last we came together,” Parker began, “there has been a man stolen in the city of our fathers. He is now in the great slave-pen in the city of Boston. He is there against the law of the Commonwealth, which, if I am rightly informed, prohibits the use of State buildings as United States jails.

“Why is this? Whose fault is this? The fugitive slave bill Commissioner has just now been sowing the wind, that we may reap the whirlwind.

“Edward Greeley Loring, I charge you with the death of that man who was killed on last Friday night. He dies at your hand. I charge you with filling the Court House with one hundred and eighty-four hired ruffians and alarming not only this city for her liberties that are in peril, but stirring up the whole Commonwealth of Massachusetts with indignation. You have done it all!”

Mouths dropped open and clamped shut again. Then noise rose and exploded.

Parker continued calmly. “I have something from Reverend Grimes and Deacon Pitts, at Anthony
Burns's special request. It was given to them by him soon after his arrest and confinement.”

The crowd hushed. Parker read the message, which, at about the same time, was being read by other ministers in other Boston churches:

“
To all the Christian Ministers of the Church of Christ in Boston
.

“Brothers: I venture humbly to ask an interest in your prayers and those of your congregations, that I may be restored to the natural and inalienable rights with which I am endowed by the Creator, and especially to the enjoyment of the blessings of liberty, which, it is said, this government was ordained to secure.

“A
NTHONY
B
URNS
, Boston Slave Pen, May 24, 1854

“Now,” Reverend Parker said quietly, “let us pray.”

All day Sunday Reverend Grimes was most concerned that the plans for early Monday morning would come unraveled. So it was that Sunday evening he felt he had to visit Commissioner Loring at his home.

Loring eased Mr. Grimes's mind by saying that he still felt Colonel Suttle would keep their agreement.

“I do desire to have your assurance,” Reverend Grimes told him, unable to shake his sense of foreboding.

“Well then, sir,” said the Commissioner, “you have my further word that if Mr. Dana or Mr. Ellis can raise any doubt at all to Burns's identity, then the man shall leave the court a free man.”

Reverend Grimes got up
to be on his way, and Judge Loring thanked him for stopping by. “We have our appointment for the coming morning at eight o'clock,” Loring said. “We will complete the purchase of Burns at that time.”

Feeling a great deal better at the sound of those words, Mr. Grimes said good night and went home.

The next day, Monday, he went early to the Commissioner's office. He waited, but Loring never came. Grimes then set off to find the Colonel. Suttle was not at the Revere House when, hat in hand, Reverend Grimes arrived. Grimes finally found him, along with his lawyers and his agent, William Brent, with Ben Hallett and Marshal Freeman in the Marshal's office.

Always polite, Mr. Grimes begged their pardon for the intrusion and reminded them that they had an appointment together. He said he was ready, and if the others were ready they should complete the transaction.

“No, suh,” said the Colonel. “It was not completed Sat'dy night. I therefo' decline to sell my boy. Let the trial go on.” He added, courteously enough, “After Tony gets back to Virginia, y'all can have him.”

“But, sir, it was not our fault—Saturday night—” Reverend Grimes began.

Ben Hallett cut him off. “When Burns has been tried and carried back, and the law executed, you can buy him,” Hallett said. “And then I will pay one hundred dollars toward his purchase.”

“But the man is ours,” Mr. Grimes pleaded. “They have already said so. There was a verbal agreement.”

“The laws of the land cannot be trampled upon,” said Hallett. “A man has been killed, and that blood
must be atoned for.” He pointed to the spot where James Batchelder had died on the Marshal's office floor.

There was nothing else to say. Reverend Grimes left, amazed and frustrated. It stunned him how events had turned for the worst so suddenly. As he went about town to collect the pledges made by the subscribers to the purchase of Anthony Burns, he found that they, too, had changed their minds.

“If they try him, I refuse to give a cent for his purchase,” said one man. He seemed more concerned for Boston than for Anthony. Apparently the gentleman didn't want his fair city to be known as having supported the Fugitive Slave Act. Reverend Grimes discovered that most who had pledged money were of the same opinion.

Meanwhile, for Anthony, Sunday had come and he was still a slave. After Saturday night had worn on and on and still no word had come to him from Reverend Grimes, he had expected bad news. Then the Marshal had come bearing it, to tell him he would not go free, not yet. And his spirit had plunged to the depths of despair. He no longer hoped for anything. Justice, goodness—nothing and no one, even Reverend Grimes, seemed capable of beating the force of the slavery power.

Didn't I run away to here? What more must I do? Anthony wondered. They told me—what did the man Dana say? That even if I runned away, the slavers must
prove
through the law that I had run.

Even if I am Anthony Burns and have said so,
they
must prove that I am me, in the court.

Court. It's coming. Soon now. He bowed his head.

Guards came near, passed him, talked
to him, fed him. He ate listlessly. He did not speak when spoken to. All day Sunday they left him alone.

Alone. Anthony was deeply so, far back in his mind where it was ever clear who was the slave and who was not. Ah, boys! he thought vaguely, back in his mind. Them ole times, we was all the little that we had!

14
Winter 1846–1847

“COACHMAN! COACHMAN! I SEEK
a straight-backed coachman!” The slave owner shouted
these words from the raised platform in the open space in front of the town market. This was the Hiring Ground, where Anthony had brought his charges, and it was feverish with busy spectacle and noise. The platform had been built three feet high and square so all could see. Every so often some planter or his assistant would step up onto the platform to begin shouting for the kind of “boy” he wanted. “Coachman!”

The owner now on the platform looked over the youths pushed forward by their masters. He jumped down, stalked about importantly inspecting slaves, and then spied Colonel Suttle, who was standing to one side close to his boys. Casually, the man came up. He stood with his legs wide apart and his hands clasped behind him. He stared down at Whittom and then spoke directly to him, as was the custom.

“Whose boy are you?” he asked.