December 23, 1858
Charleston, South Carolina
Ellie and Will decided it would be safest to stay the night at Charleston’s finest inn. A wealthy plantation owner traveling with a slave and staying the night at an expensive inn was not an unusual sight. Once again they would hide by refusing to hide.
Will helped Ellie freshen up before dinner and then headed to the slave quarters, hoping to hear useful household gossip from the slaves and gently probe for information that might help on their journey.
Alone for an hour before dinner, she lay back on her comfortable bed breathing deeply, intending to drift into sleep, free from fretting over the mistakes she could make that would betray them.
The china blue room had handsome moldings at the ceiling and floor painted white. On a small table in the corner sat a porcelain bowl adorned with a ring of delicately tinted roses and filled with clean water for washing her face and hands.
As her mind drifted into a half sleep, she took comfort in how surprisingly successful she had been taking on the role of a white man. Then it occurred to her she had simply switched from her old disguise as an attentive and obedient slave to replace it with a new one. After all, she thought, leading a double life was second nature to her. Unusually observant even as a child she learned to hide her burning resentment at being enslaved, and practiced how to speak with perfect diction and even, apparently, how to act as a moneyed white gentleman: she had the walk, the pose, the gestures, and could easily mouth the all too predictable views of a Southern slave owner.
But despite these roles she played, she always kept a fierce hold on her own true sense of self, a passionate and independent individuality she inherited from her mother, who nourished this inner strength in her beloved daughter. Her mother, Lily, often urged her to speak her thoughts freely when they were together, encouraging her intellectual development to the fullest extent possible for a slave
Ellie’s musings drifted into dreams until William came to wake her for dinner.
Assuming the persona of Eli once more, the hotel owner, a nervous elderly gentleman who stared at Eli with oddly large eyes, ushered him into the elegant dining room. His name was Mr. Holmes, and he was so solicitous toward his invalid guest that Eli was soon completely exasperated. He was also terrified that, at the height of Holmes’ Christian kindness, he would present Eli with a menu he could not read.
“This way, Mr. Johnson,” said Holmes. “And don’t worry about your nigger. I’ve taken care for him to have his meal in the kitchen.”
“But with my arm disabled as you see,” said Eli, “I need his assistance with my meal.”
“Don’t give it a second thought,” Holmes said and waved his hand. “One of my boys will attend to you.”
Eli sighed inwardly. Being separated from Will made him uneasy, but he was even more troubled when Holmes led him to a table where three gentlemen were already seated. He hoped to have a quick private meal and then retire.
Eli stumbled over a potted plant, and Mr. Holmes gripped his arm. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes,” answered Eli, “I simply tripped.”
Holmes nodded sympathetically. “It’s not much further.”
Approaching the table, Mr. Holmes cleared his throat and announced, “Gentlemen, let me introduce Mr. Elijah Johnson, just arrived. He owns a plantation near Macon, Georgia, and will be spending the night. I was wondering if he might join you for dinner?”
The men stood and bowed. “We would be honored, sir,” said an exceptionally well-dressed older gentleman in a formal dark coat. His long, finely combed beard was mostly grey, although the hair on his head was still dark brown except at the temples.
“I am Howell Cobb,” he said, and Eli recognized the name.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Eli answered. A prominent politician from Georgia, although thankfully not from Macon, Eli recalled overhearing from Colonel Collins that Cobb lived in Washington now.
“This gentleman next to me is our host, native South Carolinian Robert Rhett,” said Mr. Cobb. “He’s a politician, so it’s just as well you can’t shake his hand. You’d need to count your fingers afterwards.”
“A case of the pot calling the kettle black if ever I heard one,” said Mr. Rhett as he bowed.
“Mr. Rhett is so well loved in South Carolina,” continued Mr. Cobb, “that the state has sometimes been dubbed ‘Rhettsylvania.’ If he has his way, Rhettsylvania will soon be an independent country.” He winked at the man. Rhett was older and bald, and his foot could be heard nervously tapping the floor. He smiled weakly back at Cobb. He immediately struck Eli as an impatient man with an underdeveloped sense of humor.
Thank the Lord, thought Eli, that at least Mr. Rhett was not from Georgia.
“Last but not least, Mr. Edmund Ruffin,” said Cobb. “He’s from Virginia, but has taken to spending so much time in South Carolina agitating the poor souls who live here that like as not they’d run into a burning house just to get away from his heat. Mr. Ruffin is a dragon of a secessionist, you see. He’s so fiery that if you could shake his hand you’d think you’d grasped the handle of a red hot poker.”
“Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice, sir,” said Ruffin. The oldest of the men, his intense stare and flowing white hair gave him the harsh look of a predatory bird. Eli did not know of him.
“Please gentleman,” said Eli while forcing a smile, “sit down.”
They did. “Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Cobb, “please bring Mr. Johnson here a whiskey. I’m sure he’s parched after his journey and there is nothing like good Southern whiskey to revive a man’s flagging spirits.”
The owl-eyed Mr. Holmes slipped silently away.
“I know some of the inhabitants of Macon,” said Mr. Cobb to Eli. “Tell us about your plantation. What do you grow?”
Eli wanted nothing more than to sit in silence, but with the men staring at him he said, “We grow cotton, as is usual in our parts,” he answered.
They nodded. “And how many slaves do you have?” asked Mr. Cobb.
No one asked him how much land he owned, because land was worth nothing without slaves to work it, Eli thought grimly.
“Twenty-three at the moment,” Eli said. More slaves than that, thought Eli, and Mr. Cobb would probably wonder why they had never met.
“In a few years,” sniffed Mr. Ruffin, “the federal government will free the slaves, take your land, and your damn niggers will own your plantation while you pick cotton for them.”
“Mr. Ruffin,” said Cobb, “the situation is inflamed enough without undo exaggeration.”
“The crisis is nearly upon us, and that is no exaggeration,” said Mr. Rhett. “The Northern states tax us for the benefit of their manufacturers, and it won’t be long before they rob us of our property as well. Sooner or later we will be forced to defend ourselves. Mark my words.”
A servant placed a tumbler of whiskey before Eli.
“Gentleman,” said Cobb, lifting his own glass. “I propose a toast to our new friend from Georgia and to the sunny South. Long may she grow and prosper.”
They all raised their glasses, nodding to Eli, who raised his own. He had never drunk hard liquor, but was curious to see how it tasted. The brown liquid in his glass looked like strong tea but smelled of smoke and oak. It didn’t appear dangerous. The others downed their glasses in a single swallow, and he followed suit.
His first panicked thought was he had been poisoned. A raging fire burned his throat and he stifled a choke, taking a sharp breath to recover.
“Boy,” Cobb called for the servant. “Bring Mr. Johnson another whiskey. He’s had a long journey. Hell,” he chuckled, winking at them all, “bring everyone another whiskey.”
Eli was relieved when their host, Mr. Rhett, launched into a political diatribe, sparing Eli the attention of the table. “The Southern States now stand in the same position as the Northern States when they were forced to overthrow the tyranny of Great Britain. The only difference is that now the Northern States are the tyrants.
“Since those states have a majority in Congress, they claim absolute authority over all of the states for anything that promotes their ‘general welfare,’ which the Northerners define as they please. This is the only Constitutional limit that they recognize. As the federal government consolidates its power, it forces the people of the Southern States to free themselves of the kind of despotism that caused the revolution of 1776. Revolution, gentleman; that was what was required then, and that requirement is at our doorstep again.”
The fire slowly drained from Eli’s throat and descended warmly into his belly. It was an unexpectedly agreeable sensation that made him feel as if the whole room had suddenly lit up like a warm stove on a chilly night.
“What you say about the interference of the Northern states is true,” said Mr. Cobb. “But we do have allies there who support us. I don’t think that the South is required to rebel at this time.”
“We are now a minority in the Federal Congress,” said Ruffin. “The flood of poor and ignorant immigrants into the North overwhelms us and corrupts our established society, and it will not stop. With it, the South now faces mob rule by the rabble in the majority up North, and I, for one, will not have it.
“I do not believe that our ancestors intended for our government to become an absolute ruler as the British were. The object of the Constitution is to frame a limited government that only acts on issues common to all portions of these United States. Now the North gains in power as it adulterates our culture through unregulated immigration, which dilutes our national character.”
The serving boy poured a new round of drinks, and Cobb told him to leave the bottle.
“Gentlemen,” objected Mr. Cobb, “this is just not true. War against the North is an extreme step that must be taken only when we have no other option.” He turned to Eli. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Johnson?”
Feeling better and better, a brave recklessness replaced Eli’s reticence. “I’m not a political man and only wish to be left in peace and freedom,” he said loudly. Pleased with what he said, his confidence rose even as his cheeks flushed.
“I could not agree more,” enthused Mr. Rhett. He raised his glass. “This is not about politics. This is about freedom. Gentlemen, I drink to the unbridled freedom of Mr. Johnson.”
“Here, here,” said the rest, raising their glasses.
Eli raised his and they downed them at a gulp. It hardly burned at all this time, Eli was pleasantly surprised to discover. In fact, the flavor and sensation were even fresher and stronger. Mr. Cobb poured another round.
“Secession must be a last resort,” Mr. Cobb said again. “If at all possible, we should remain one country. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Johnson?”
Eli felt extraordinarily fine as he again took center stage. The room seemed increasingly brighter and more relaxed. He was tempted to laugh, but instead cleared his throat and declared loudly, “No one should ever be a slave. If there is liberty in union, then let there be union! But whatever it takes, I and my family will be free and let no man stand in my way!”
“You sir,” said Mr. Cobb, “are a fount of wisdom. With men like you the country is in fine hands.”
“You speak straight to my heart!” said Mr. Rhett. “To the future of our country,” he continued, refilling everyone’s glass. They raised them high, and Eli declared, “To liberty whatever the cost!”
“Here, here,” they said again and drank.
“I declare, Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Cobb. “The pale color has left your face and you positively glow, sir. You glow.”
Hawk-faced Mr. Ruffin had been quiet, but now said, “I fear disaster will be on us before you wake to the threat that now hangs over our heads. What will it take to convince you that our freedom is at risk?”
Mr. Cobb mused a moment. “I don’t know. But I shall know it when I see it.”
“I believe that the Republicans will nominate Lincoln for president, and you know that his sentiments do not match ours,” said Ruffin. “If Lincoln is elected President, would that convince you?”
Mr. Cobb snorted. “I cannot see any circumstance by which that primal gorilla could possibly win an election. In fact, his nomination would doom his party to defeat.”
“Who is Lincoln?” asked Eli, his tongue feeling sluggish and uncooperative.
Mr. Cobb laughed. “I like you, sir. You are a man who gets on with his own affairs and lets the rest of the world be damned. Lincoln is an abolitionist. The election of such a man to the presidency of these United States would be the end of union. That is where I draw the line.”
“If Lincoln is nominated by his party I, for one, shall vote for him.” said Mr. Rhett forcefully.
“What?” exclaimed Cobb, whirling on him. “Are you mad, sir? Don’t even joke about such a thing.”
“I am in deadly earnest, sir,” replied Rhett. “If Lincoln’s election stirs the South into declaring independence, then I will vote for him. Every day the North grows stronger while we grow weaker. If we are to have a chance of survival we must take steps soon. The time has come for actions, not words, and I for one will vote for Mr. Lincoln.”
Silence fell on the room. Eli had lost the thread of the conversation and stared blankly at the table. Something did not seem right, but he was not sure why.
Finally Cobb said, “It will mean war, sir. War. How can you wish for it?”
“I do not wish it,” said Rhett, “but I don’t shrink from it, either. We must preserve our rights.”
Mr. Cobb’s eyes turned cold and steely as he stared between Mr. Rhett and Mr. Ruffin. Even from within the lazy fog of comfort that settled over Eli’s brain, he could feel the tension at the table rise.
Eli stood. His legs felt unsteady, but he managed it anyway. Wanting to say something to rouse the group, he remembered a quote he once overheard and memorized long ago. Patrick somebody had said it, he drunkenly recalled.
“Gentleman,” he said, raising his glass, “give me liberty or give me death!”
Everyone sprang to their feet. “Exactly right, Mr. Johnson,” said Mr. Cobb. “On that, at least, we can all agree.” He raised his glass. “Liberty or death!” he repeated.
They all drank.
Eli sat back down but missed the chair and kept on going. The last thing he remembered thinking was how curious the ceiling appeared, although he could not say why.