The Widow's War

In early September, a violent hurricane had struck Savannah, wiping out bridges, killing slaves on the barrier islands, and endangering the city. On the day the storm made landfall, the sky became a green-black cauldron, the wind wailed like a demon, roofs blew off the warehouses that lined Factors Walk, and thousands of dollars’ worth of cotton was pummeled into a sodden, unsalvageable mess. Now, in early November, the fall storms are over, the temperature is in the high seventies, and in Oglethorpe Square in the parlor of a private home where the Marquis de Lafayette once occupied an upstairs bedroom, Senator Bennett Presgrove is red-faced and sweating from an hour and a half of almost uninterrupted oration.

Bennett has been traveling through the South for nearly a month now on a speaking tour that has taken him to Nashville, Memphis, Richmond, Petersburg, Birmingham, Mobile, New Orleans, Charleston, and nearly every other Southern city with a population over fifteen thousand. He has even spoken in the newly founded town of Atlanta because his train stopped there unexpectedly.

The subject of Bennett’s speech this afternoon is ostensibly States’ Rights, by which he means the right of the citizens of Georgia to resist the federal government by any means necessary, including joining with other slave states to form a new nation. But the meat of his topic—the real reason he is dripping with sweat, mopping his brow, and waxing eloquent—is Kansas. The first territorial election is about to occur—not the one that will decide if Kansas joins the Union free or slave, but an important election, nevertheless; one that will select Kansas’s first delegate to Congress.

“Gentlemen,” Bennett says, “we cannot let this election slip through our fingers! We must send John W. Whitfield to Washington.” He pauses and looks intently at his audience. They are the usual mix of merchants, professional men, exporters, and slave owners from the rice and cotton plantations. Sixty some years ago Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin not more than twelve miles from where he now stands. Cotton has made Savannah one of the most important ports in the South. It is planted by slaves, cultivated by slaves, and harvested by slaves. Slaves gin it; slaves bale it; slaves carry it onto the ships that transport it to the mills of England and New England. A strong, healthy male slave between the ages of fourteen and thirty-three is currently selling for as much as $700 with some bringing as much as $1500.

For reasons he does not care to acknowledge openly, Bennett knows these prices right down to the penny. For the last ten years he and Deacon have been smuggling slaves into the United States from Africa and Brazil in defiance of federal law. Presgrove ships always carry legitimate cargo—sacks of refined sugar, bolts of cloth, casks of rum—but before they off-load these goods at U.S. ports, they stop at the Southern barrier islands and off-load their human cargo in the dead of night.

Slave smuggling is a very profitable business and not particularly dangerous. Thanks to the high death rate of native-born slave children, there is always a labor shortage on the larger plantations. When rich, powerful men are eager to buy your goods, you are not likely to find yourself charged with a crime. In fact, at this very moment some of Bennett’s best customers are sitting right in front of him. He knows the exact worth of their slaves, which means he also knows exactly how much they stand to lose if the abolitionists triumph.

“Do y’all know what the Yankees are up to?” he says. “Have y’all any idea what nefarious schemes they have concocted in the Sodoms and Gomorrahs of New York and Boston? Well, gentlemen, let me show you.”

He reaches for a string, gives a dramatic tug, and unrolls a map that has been fastened to the parlor wall over the protests of the mistress of the house. It’s the same map Carrie consulted, but it has been scribbled over, altered, and brought up to date by Bennett himself.

Seizing his gold-headed walking stick, he points to the great, rose-colored oblong of the Kansas Territory. “See here where the Indians are said to dwell? Well, cross them out, gentlemen. We’ve driven most of them off. They’re either going, gone, penned in reservation, or dying. Smallpox and pneumonia have done our work for us. You won’t find any wagon trains burning in Kansas these days, but what you will find is savages—Yankee savages—a whole army of them, gentlemen, a damnable army of New England abolitionists streaming into the territory like vultures coming down on a dead mule. Y’all know what they’ve done? Well, look here.” Again he raps the map with his stick.

“Here’s Kickapoo, Lecompton, Atchison, and Leavenworth—good southern, pro-slave towns mostly founded by boys from Missouri. But here’s Osawatomie. An abolitionist rats’ nest, gentlemen. A vermin-harboring, slave-stealing town that will vote to bring Kansas into the Union as a free state, and then vote to take away your God-given right to own slaves.

“And what’s worse than Osawatomie? What’s the carbuncle on the face of freedom that should be burned down and sown with salt? Lawrence. The name turns my stomach, gentlemen. I hate to even utter it. It’s not a normal city. It’s an abomination: an entire New England village brought out to the prairie piece by piece.

“I have a map of it, drawn up by men who sympathize with our cause. I reckon I don’t have to explain why I posses such a map. The honorable gentlemen of Savannah have a long history of military service. Why right here, not more than a few blocks away, stands a cemetery filled with the graves of heroes of the first Revolutionary War.”

He leans forward, smiles, and lowers his voice. “I say the first Revolutionary War because I believe there’s going to be a second. Yes, a second. But more of that later in private over cigars and whiskey.” Straightening up, he resumes speaking in a normal tone.

“This is Lawrence, Kansas, gentlemen. As of the first of August of this year, it consisted of about fifteen tents and had a population of thirty or so abolitionist squatters. Now look at it. This is Lawrence as of three weeks ago. The Yankees have surveyed the prairie and are selling off land to emigrants who are leaving Massachusetts in packs to the sound of hymns and trumpets.”

“They’ve brought out an entire sawmill in pieces and set it up on the bank of the Kaw River. Right this very minute, it’s churning out milled lumber faster than shit goes through a goose. The Yankees brought printing presses with them and are already publishing two abolitionist newspapers. No, I misspoke. They came with the first editions of those inflammatory, traitorous rags already printed up and ready for distribution. They’re making barrels and wagons, nails, and guns. Well, they don’t have to make too many guns since the New England abolitionists are arming them to the teeth. I hear tell they even got mortars.

“You want to talk treason, gentlemen? You want to talk rebellion against the elected government? What do you suppose those Yankee squatters intend to use those mortars for? Hunting quail?” He raises his stick and begins to strike the map of Lawrence repeatedly.

“Lawrence, Kansas, population approximately seven hundred. Emigrant Aid Company Sawmill, Emigrant Aid Office, Land and Lumber Company, U.S. Post Office, Miller and Elliot’s Printing Office, Offices of The Herald of Freedom and The Kansas Free State, Stern’s Eating House, Pioneer House—a shelter for recent arrivals—Simpson’s Meat Market, First Church. Schools, shelters made out of sod not fit to house pigs being replaced with fine homes you could bring your wife and daughters to, not that any of you would ever subject the ladies of your family to such company.

“And like Adam in the Garden, the Yankees are renamin’ everything. Good old ‘Hogback Ridge’ has become ‘Mount Oread.’ The portion of the California Road that runs through the town is now ‘Massachusetts Street.’ Am I makin’ my point, gentlemen? Do I have your attention?

“Lawrence, Kansas, has approximately two hundred free white males over the age of twenty-one. That’s two hundred abolitionists qualified to vote. Lawrence is going to swing the territorial election if we don’t stop it. And with your help we shall.”

Lowering his stick, he leans forward and again becomes confidential. “We need money, and we need men. We’d rather have the men than the money because we intend to send an army of pro-slavers into Kansas to vote for Whitfield, but if you can’t go yourselves, we’ll take your donations and thank you for them. One patriotic Southern gentleman has already sold forty of his slaves and donated the proceeds to the cause. My own son—” He pauses and gestures to Deacon who is sitting at the back of the room. “Stand up, son.” Deacon stands.

“My own son, Deacon, here had the good fortune to marry a lady of property. He has already spent a good portion of what she brought him to equip a boatload of pro-slavery emigrants who will leave from St. Louis this coming Monday. Let’s give him a round of applause.”

The men in the room clap, although not with as much enthusiasm as Bennett would like. Savannah cotton growers are a tight fisted lot, and even though their very way of life may hang on this election, here in Georgia, Kansas seems very far away.

Deacon frowns as if he, too, has noticed the lukewarm quality of the applause. For a moment he seems ready to sit down, but then he does something brilliant. Waving aside the clapping, he smiles modestly.

“Ah cannot take credit for such a little thang,” he says, in a Southern accent so strong Bennett realizes he is going to have to remind Deacon to continue speaking this way until they leave Savannah. “Mah only desire is to ensure the freedom of gentlemen like y’all to own their property in peace. For what other reason did your ancestors fight side by side with the Marquis de Lafayette to defend the beautiful city of Savannah against the tyranny of George the Third?”

Now it is Bennett’s turn to frown. As Deacon would know, if he had paid the slightest attention to his history lessons, the Marquis de Lafayette never fought anywhere near Savannah. Worse yet, Lafayette was an abolitionist who freed his own slaves.

Bennett never knows how to reign the boy in when he launches into one of his theatrical soliloquies. He wants to tell Deacon that a French admiral named Valerie D’estaing was the one who teamed up against the British during the Battle of Savannah, but it’s too late. Deacon has the bit in his teeth and is running with it.

“Freedom!” Deacon cries. “Yes, gentlemen, freedom from government interference. There’s no more sacred word than freedom unless it be honor. How can y’all applaud me for doin’ only what any of y’all would do in my position, for doin’ what you’re gonna do now.” Whipping off his hat, he begins to walk through the room like a preacher taking up a collection.

To Bennett’s amazement, this works. Maybe it’s Deacon’s Southern accent or his apparent sincerity or the modest way he puts his hat in front of men who cannot now decline to contribute without losing face. In any event, those tight Savannah fists open, and later when Bennett inspects the take, he discovers he has received substantial pledges as well as cash.

He has also received a short note from a young man named Henry Clark. Clark is not a gentleman, nor does he come from Savannah. Deacon picked him up on the docks last night and went drinking with him, and where Clark comes from or who his family is, is anyone’s guess. Still his note is intriguing. It reads, in full:

I want to kil me some Yankees.

Murder is not on Bennett’s Kansas agenda at present, but violent men have their uses. Bennett makes a mental note to keep Clark in mind if he needs a madman to do a job no sane man would do. He’s fairly sure Clark is insane. The boy has eyes like glass marbles and a smile that would freeze a fire.

Money, pledges, and a willing assassin: Deacon has done well today. If they could just find out where in damnation his bitch of a wife has gone and get her back before Deacon becomes known as the “Cuckold of Kentucky,” the boy might have a profitable political career in front of him.

Congressman Deacon Presgrove, Bennett thinks. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. But not Senator. Deacon isn’t stepping into my boots until I am dust in my coffin. Of course I may not continue to serve as a senator until my dyin’ day. When the Southern states secede they’ll be lookin’ for a president to head up the new nation.

Bennett examines himself in the beveled, gilt-framed mirror that runs half the length of the parlor wall. He decides that if he tidied up his hair a bit and turned himself sideways, he’d look damn fine on the face of a twenty-dollar bill.