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.
“ANTHONY BURNS, 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!