Chapter Thirteen
Robert leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, grateful for a chance to unwind and relax. An axle had broken on his carriage on the way to the station. Meriday had barely gotten him there in time to catch his train. He would have to send a letter of appreciation to the man who had stopped and helped him repair his axle. For now, he would get some much-needed rest.
“Robert Borden!”
Robert contemplated feigning a deep sleep. He had no desire to be bothered. He opened his eyes a mere slit to identify his intruder. “Matthew Justin!” All thoughts of sleep fled his mind as he jumped up and pumped the other man’s hand. “What in the world are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question, old boy. The last I saw you, you were still a student in Philadelphia. I take it you finished?”
“Yes. They actually let me out of the place with a degree.” Robert laughed, deciding not to tell him he had left with three classes to complete because of the rising tension. “I’m at home on my plantation in Virginia now. And what about you?” he asked. “Was some paper actually crazy enough to let you go to work for them?”
Matthew nodded, his long red hair bouncing off his shoulders as wildly as before. His bright blue eyes shone with excitement. “The editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer actually decided to give me a go at it. I’ve been there almost two years now.”
Robert grinned at his old friend. He looked just like he always had—the angular face softened by a boyish grin, and the tall, muscular body that spoke of his farm heritage in the mountains of western Virginia. “I always knew you would make it.”
Matthew shrugged. “I had to make it. There was no way I was going back to working in the tobacco fields. My father loves it, but my heart was never in it. Journalism…” His voice almost caressed the word. “I love it as much as I thought I would.” He paused. “Are you glad to be home again?”
Robert nodded. “There is no place on earth like Oak Meadows. I have a lot of plans to expand the plantation.”
“Does that have something to do with where you’re headed now?”
Robert shook his head. “Not a thing. I’m headed to Charleston for the Democratic Convention.”
“Really? Why? What draws you there?” Matthew was openly surprised.
Robert shrugged and smiled. “If my heart wasn’t tied to Oak Meadows I might have followed my interest in politics. I’ve made my choice and I’m happy with it, but I still have a yearning to be in the center of things. At least enough to watch what happens.” His tone grew suddenly serious. “I think this convention may be the most important one our country has seen. A lot is resting on in.” He frowned and looked at his friend. “What about you? Where are you headed?”
“Charleston,” Matthew said with a grin. “Looks like we’re going to relive some of those wild times we had in college. Besides being very important politically, I can guarantee you it’s going to be one big party down there. When I’m not working,” he hastened to add. “I’m going to be covering the convention for my newspaper, along with some other guys who are in the other car probably wondering if I fell off the train somewhere.”
“Let them wonder.” Robert moved his hat and coat to make room for his friend.
Matthew nodded and sat down. “They’ll come looking for me if they get really worried. We have a lot to catch up on.”
The first few hours passed quickly as they relived old memories of college days. Laughter rang freely between the two friends. Robert was thrilled to have run into Matthew. They had been suitemates for his first two years of college. When Matthew graduated, they lost touch, but Robert had never stopped thinking about him. There were many times he had missed his friend’s quiet understanding, mountain-grown wisdom, and common sense. As they sat at their table in the dinner car now, the conversation grew more serious.
“So, Robert, are you still a Radical Democrat?” Matthew asked with a smile. Robert didn’t answer immediately and the long pause caused Matthew to lean forward and look at him more closely. The silence stretched between them.
Finally, Robert answered. “I don’t want to appear wishy-washy by not standing solidly somewhere, old friend, but at the risk of appearing that way, I have to admit I have some grave questions about my party. I never thought I would find myself feeling that way, but...” He shrugged his broad shoulders.
Matthew peered at him intently. “What has brought about this change?”
“All this wild talk of secession. From what I can tell, men on both sides are caught in the throes of passion. They are exchanging their reason for the passions of their heart. That can only mean trouble.” Edmund Ruffin stood clearly in his thoughts. “I just spent an evening talking with a new friend. The man’s name is Thomas Cromwell. He’s a sensible man. I had heard much about him before I sought him out. He also is afraid the country is headed for big trouble, and is certain there will be war if the country splits. Cromwell was once a strong supporter and participant in the Whig Party, though he now aligns himself with the Democrats since the Whigs lost their political power. He is a strong Union man. I found him fascinating to talk to and took heart that there are still reasonable men to be found in the South.” The thoughtful look on his face deepened. “There must be a way to heal the split trying to force this country apart.”
“There are extremists on both sides, Robert. How familiar are you with the Republican Party?”
“The Black Republicans?”
Matthew laughed. “Familiar enough, I take it.”
Robert shrugged. “I know that everything my life is based on will be destroyed if the Republicans gain the presidency.”
“Meaning slavery.” It wasn’t a question.
Robert nodded, realizing he had no idea where his friend stood on the issue. Suddenly he didn’t want to know. He valued him as a friend too much. He wanted to enjoy their time together, not fight over the slavery issue. He was sure there would be plenty of opportunity for that in Charleston. “So tell me, Matthew. What’s it going to be like in Charleston when we get there?”
Matthew let him change the subject and they continued to talk as the train rolled southward.
Robert gazed around at the chaos surrounding him. The Charleston train station was a madhouse.
“They’re expecting at least four thousand visitors for the convention.” Matthew had to shout to make himself heard over the din of the milling crowd. In the distance, they could hear a band playing. The clatter of carriage wheels on the cobblestone streets only added to the cacophony of sounds assaulting them from every direction.
Robert was intrigued. He had become accustomed to such madness during his years in Philadelphia. He had long wanted to visit Charleston and planned to make the most of this experience. He found himself wishing briefly that Carrie could be with him. He sensed she would love the stimulation of this atmosphere. Soon though, his attention was drawn by the men milling around him. There were delegates here from every state. Robert could almost pick them out from the hundreds of spectators descending on the city for what was certain to be a show. Politicians seemed to wear the mark of constantly being in the public eye. There were cold-eyed men who looked like professional gamblers, with slicked-back hair topping eyes that glittered with the opportunities they hoped to find here. Everywhere there were stout, perspiring men dressed in solid black. Fine linen clothing, topped by stovepipe hats, spoke of their pompous self-importance. They leaned on their gold-headed canes, and carried on intense, whispered conversation with other men identical to themselves.
Robert felt a tug on his sleeve. “Let’s get a carriage and get out of this madness,” Matthew shouted.
Robert nodded, making no attempt to shout over the noise. He reached down, grabbed his bag, and followed his friend through the crowd. It wasn’t much quieter by the street, but at least he didn’t have to shout to make himself heard. “I’m assuming you have reservations in the city?”
Matthew nodded. “At some hotel in the middle of this madness. We have to be in the center of the action. Our editor would have a fit if we missed anything. What about you, old man? You manage to find a place to stay?”
Robert nodded. “I made reservations months ago. I wasn’t going to miss this. I have a room at the Planters Inn.”
Matthew whistled, suitably impressed. “They sure didn’t put us up in accommodations like those, I assure you. My editor told me to be thankful if I found a mattress on the floor.”
Robert laughed. “You said you have to be in the center of things. Does that also mean you have to stay with the rest of your team of reporters?”
Matthew thought a moment. “I don’t think it really matters where I stay,” he said thoughtfully. “Not that I’ll get much chance to lie down anyway,” he added.
Robert nodded. “Then there is no reason you should not stay with me,” he said. “I have plenty of room, and I would welcome the company.” He was thrilled when Matthew enthusiastically agreed. He was glad to have reconnected with his old friend, and he knew he might never find him again in this madhouse if they separated.
Matthew’s attention was suddenly distracted. “The guys are waving me over,” he said, excusing himself.
Within moments, Robert was in possession of Matthew’s bags and a promise to meet for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant.
After settling himself in the elegant hotel that was the meeting place for Charleston gentry, Robert set out to explore the city, turning down several offers from eager carriage drivers. He wanted to walk. The charm of the city captured him instantly. Evidence of a strong Huguenot tradition was reflected in its almost French appearance. Other parts looked as if they sprang straight from Georgian England. The mix was captivating.
Robert walked slowly through streets dominated by a myriad of slim, white church steeples. Richmond had its fair share of churches as well, but with Charleston’s land and houses being so close to sea level, they seemed to be even taller and more elegant. The shops were quaint, and long rows of pastel dwellings boasted gateways and railings of delicate iron filigree. Everywhere were mansions with long piazzas and slim, white pillars. Robert was enchanted by occasional glimpses into the shaded, flower-strewn courtyards protected within their confines. Palmettos and live oaks dripping with Spanish moss lent an otherworldly air to the city.
Robert took deep breaths of the salt-laden air of the bustling port town as he strolled toward the battery. Twisted live oaks provided a backdrop of beauty for the riotous flowers that splashed their colors onto the warm spring canvas. Carriages, carrying well-dressed Charlestonians with a distinctively disdainful air, clattered leisurely through the cobblestone streets. Elegantly dressed ladies sauntered along, eager not to miss any of the excitement descending on their town.
Robert’s steps finally led him seaward. The gently lapping waters mesmerized him with their rhythmic motion. The very sameness with which they had caressed these shores for thousands of years was a fitting backdrop for this city. Just as he had been told, Charleston was, in every way, the past incarnate, forcing time to stand still and carefully preserving a cherished way of life that had a fragile and immutable pattern. It would listen to no demand for change and expected everyone who called it home to resist any change, to beat down anything that would even look like a concession to change. In the short time he had been here, he sensed the city was full of those eager to respond.
He stood and allowed the lure of the water to sweep over him. A soft breeze filled his nostrils with the salty air and ruffled his hair. Once again he found himself thinking of Carrie. He stared almost unseeingly at Castle Pinckney on its low island and could barely make out unfinished Fort Sumter in the distance, where a few workmen unhurriedly put together bricks and stones in deep casements. None of it was of any interest to him. His mind was full of a vibrant girl with emerald-green eyes.
He had never met anyone like Carrie. He loved her animation and the fire of passion that lit her eyes when she felt intensely about something. Not only was she beautiful, she was intelligent and not embarrassed to show her feelings. He had met girls like her in the North, but the girls he knew in the South seemed concerned only with the daily affairs of life. As long as their social world continued to whirl, they were content. Carrie was obviously different. She was likely an enigma to her peers. A picture of her snipping a lock of hair at the tournament rose in his mind. She had won his heart with that one silly, lovable action. Grinning broadly, he moved on. He would get the chance to see Carrie again soon enough. A glance at his watch made him increase his pace. He had just enough time to make it back to the hotel to meet Matthew.
It was late that night before Matthew made his way back to the Planters Inn. “I’m sorry, Robert. I trust you received my note?”
“I did, though I had no doubts you were in the midst of some journalistic drama.” Robert laughed. “I managed to pass the evening quite pleasantly.” He rambled on for a few minutes, telling Matthew about his day until he realized his friend wasn’t listening. “Hey, old man, where are you? I don’t believe you heard a word I’m saying!”
Matthew shook his head with a rueful grin that belied the look in his eyes. “You’re right. You lost me at journalistic drama.” Matthew finally continued in a heavy voice. “There’s going to be trouble.”
“Trouble?” Robert echoed after a long silence.
“There is a very dangerous game being played. The result can only be disastrous.” Then Matthew fell silent, deep in thought.
Robert restrained the impulse to grab him and shake out of him whatever he was thinking. He knew his friend wouldn’t talk until he had his thoughts together. It was one of the things he had always admired—and one of the things that had always driven him to distraction. He sat back in his chair and waited.
Matthew finally leaned forward. Robert matched his action. “You ever heard of William Yancey?”
Robert shrugged. “I know the name, but no more.”
“You’ll know more by the time you leave here. I’ve heard people in my circle call him the Prince of Fire-Eaters. He holds no hope that the South will do any justice to itself by remaining in the Union. Secession is the only thing that will satisfy him. Mark my words, he is here to destroy this convention.”
Robert shook his head, unwilling to accept his usually levelheaded friend’s words. “I know there are fire-eaters here in Charleston, but they are a minority,” he insisted, wondering who he was trying to convince. “There are still reasonable men in this country—both North and South. Compromise can be found.”
“Do you want to see Douglas nominated, Robert?” Matthew asked.
“I have grave doubts about Douglas. His position on slavery troubles me. If the South is not to be violated, we need a man who will take a stronger stand. I don’t agree with his stand on popular sovereignty. But, having said that, I see no other man within the party who has a hope of beating Seward. The Republicans are almost certain to nominate him next month in Chicago. I fear what that would mean even more.” He smiled. “I guess that is a long way to say, yes, I want to see Douglas nominated. Why?”
“It is going to take a great many men of reason to see Douglas nominated. I don’t think there are enough of them here. There are many men here, led by the deceptively mild-mannered Yancey, who will fight Douglas without paying any heed to the cost of the fight. They have the advantage that any completely determined minority would have in a meeting where the majority would like to have harmony. They are ready to go to any extremes. They will accept harmony if they can get it on their own terms. Otherwise, they are perfectly ready to accept discord. William Yancey is here for only one reason—to create discord. It is the only possible way to meet his agenda.”
Robert shook his head. “There are a great many men here who believe victory in November is critical. I must believe that men will lay their personal antagonisms aside and make the success of the party their first objective. If our party can hold its unity, it is almost certain we can gain enough electoral votes in the North to gain the majority we need to win the election.”
“If can be a mighty big word. Consider this, Robert. How would most of these reasonable men react if the Republicans were to win the presidency this fall?”
Robert sighed. “It would be quite a shock. I, for one, do not want to see our country run by someone who has vowed not to support the values our society rests upon. I’m afraid there will be trouble.”
“Exactly. Trouble is exactly what the fire-eaters want. They believe they can get their way only if the Democrats lose the election. Most of the South is not yet ready to embrace secession, but the shock of a Black Republican victory would almost certainly make them ready.”
The convention opened at noon on a rainy April 23.
Robert hurried in to gain his seat in the gallery. His frustration mounted quickly. The acoustics of the great Institute Hall were horrible, due primarily to the stream of wagons and drays clattering over the cobblestoned streets just outside the doors. Try as he might, he could not make any sense of the garbled sounds rising to his straining ears. Things improved somewhat when massive loads of sawdust were dumped on the streets to deaden the noise. Once he could hear, Robert realized there was not much to listen to. Procedures were laid in place and speeches were made, but the real issues boiled just beneath the surface, not yet ready to emerge. When the long day ended, nothing had been accomplished.
“Ready for a little of the real action, old friend?”
Robert looked up, startled, when Matthew’s hand clapped his shoulder. He had just settled down to a late dinner in the hotel’s restaurant. He was tired after sitting in the gallery of the convention hall all day. Frankly, he just wanted to rest, but his curiosity made him ask, “What real action?”
“All the delegates of the cotton states are meeting tonight.”
“Why?” Robert demanded. “The meetings are over for the day.”
Matthew shrugged. “That’s what I intend to find out. My journalistic nose says it’s important. Want to go along?”
Ten minutes later the two men were striding down the street. If possible, Charleston had gotten wilder. Liquor was flowing freely and the streets were full of milling, talking, speculating men, waving their arms and seeing who could shout their sentiments louder. Robert and Matthew were forced to sidestep several brawls that broke out on the sidewalks.
“How did you find out about this?” Robert shouted over the din.
“It’s my job. I just keep my eyes and ears open. If you listen long enough and watch hard enough, it’s amazing what you can learn. Besides, Yancey isn’t trying to keep anything a big secret. His aim is to pull men over to his side.”
Up ahead, a large contingent of men was entering a modest-fronted, two-story building. He was surprised when Matthew took his arm to keep him from entering. “What are you doing?”
Matthew shook his head and continued walking. Robert followed. Ducking into the shadows of the building, Matthew headed down the dark alley beside the building. Finally he came to rest next to a wrought iron staircase. He grinned in the darkness. “I didn’t say we had been invited to this little get together. I just said I knew about it. This is our entrance.”
Robert grinned in return. “Just like the old days.”
“Yes, just like the old days.” Within minutes, the two had scaled the staircase, crawled into an open window, and positioned themselves where they could see and hear the action going on below.
Robert’s heart grew heavy as the night wore on. He listened intently as Yancey led most of the talking. When Alabama’s Democratic Convention had met in January, Yancey had put through a resolution that was basically an iron-clad demand for a slave code in regard to the territories that said the government had no power to abolish or legislate the existence or practice of slavery. The state convention had ordered this platform be submitted to the convention and had further ordered that the Alabama delegation was to withdraw if it was not adopted. The state had made no attempt to hide its definition of the battle lines.
“Gentlemen, we are in this battle together,” Yancey challenged. “We either stand together, or fall together. What will it be?”
By the end of the night, Yancey had done what he had set out to do. The delegations from Georgia, Florida, Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, and Mississippi had agreed to go where Alabama went.
Robert and Matthew were silent as they wound their way back through the still bawdy streets. Men carried on, totally unaware that momentous decisions had been made within throwing distance of where they now stood. Matthew was the one to break the silence. “The convention is going to fall apart,” he predicted.
Robert disagreed. “I don’t think that will happen.” He was still looking for a happy ending, though hopes of it were waning. “It’s true Douglas doesn’t stand much of a chance now. His platform will never include the conditions Yancey laid out. But I believe Douglas will eventually withdraw. He will either see that it’s for the good of the party, or he’ll just bow out of what is inevitable defeat. Surely an acceptable compromise candidate can be named. Once there is a candidate all of us can get behind, we can move forward and take the election in the fall.” He tried to feel as confident as he sounded.
“You don’t really believe that, Robert,” Matthew broke in. “There is no one who can gain enough of the votes here to win the nomination. No, I’m afraid this act tonight has split the party irrevocably.”
“Surely you recognize how critical the slavery issue is to the South. The party must stand together on this issue.” There, Robert had said it. Even between old friends, the issue could not be ignored.
Matthew frowned, but answered honestly. “Slavery has never been an important part of life to those of us in western Virginia. We have carved out lives for ourselves without the aid of slavery.”
“Yes, but surely you can see how life as I know it would be destroyed.”
The silence stretched longer this time. Matthew, when he replied, was gentle but firm. “A life built on others being denied freedom is not a life I would want. I don’t stand with the ranks of the abolitionists, but neither can I support the institution of slavery.”
Robert was thankful for the brawl that broke out right in front of him, saving him from having to respond. He didn’t want to fight with his friend. Debate over current issues had always been a favorite part of their relationship, but this was different. He was not debating a distant current event. He felt as if he were being backed into a corner, forced to defend a way of life he had always taken for granted.
They walked the rest of the way back to the hotel in silence.
The Charleston convention went the way Matthew had predicted.
On April 27, the platform reports were presented. The Douglas platform attempted to push the slavery issue into the hands of the Supreme Court, stating that it was a judicial matter by nature and should be decided there.
Robert leaned forward in his gallery seat when Yancey walked to the podium. In a quiet, dignified voice he made clear the grounds on which he stood. There was only one stand the Democratic Party could make—that slavery was right. Neither he himself, nor the Alabama delegation for which he spoke, wanted a breakup of the Union, but someone had to make it clear to the democrats of the North that the Union would be dissolved unless constitutional principles protecting slavery triumphed at the polls.
“Ours is the property invaded,” Yancey declared. “Ours are the institutions which are at stake; ours is the peace that is to be destroyed; ours is the property that is to be destroyed; ours is the honor at stake—the honor of children, the honor of families, the lives, perhaps, of all. All of this rests upon what your course may ultimately make out of a great heaving volcano of passion and crime, if you are enabled to consummate your designs. Bear with us then, if we stand sternly here upon what is yet that dormant volcano, and say we yield no position here until we are convinced we are wrong.”
George A. Pugh of Ohio, a Douglas supporter, jumped up to give an impassioned response. “The real root of the difficulty is that Northern Democrats have worn themselves out defending Southern interests. Now we are being ordered to hide our faces and eat dirt. Gentlemen of the South, you mistake us—you mistake us—we will not do it!”
Robert watched as the convention hall erupted in a giant uproar. All over the floor, delegates were on their feet, waving their arms, yelling for recognition. It resembled little more than a circus as chaos reigned supreme. Passion collided with passion, though none of it was recognizable. It ended with a slam of the gavel announcing that the convention had adjourned until morning.
Cold rain enveloped both the city and the hearts of those who were still hoping for reason to prevail. The numbers had dwindled as passion overruled lucid thought and the greater good dwindled before the importance of each man’s need to promote his agenda. There would be no compromise because there were not enough men present who were willing to put their passions aside and choose clear thinking.
Monday morning, April 30, dawned fair and clear. Robert made his way to the convention hall. Not because he had any great hopes that things would change for the better, but simply because he had resolved to see it through to the end. Great trainloads of spectators, tired of the show, had departed the city. The galleries were now crowded with Charlestonians caught in the so-called “Yancey Spirit.” Robert sat stiffly as his hopes for a united party died with each passing moment.
As the morning wore on, things seem to take a turn for the better. Robert leaned forward eagerly in his seat as his excitement built. Had the weekend worked some kind of magic? With a minimum of delay, the Douglas platform was accepted with a majority of the vote. But, just as quickly, his hopes were dashed when he realized it was all a carefully orchestrated game.
One by one, the delegates of the cotton states stood and announced their withdrawal from the convention. There were no threats, no denunciations, and no angry language. With a dignified finality, they simply withdrew.
Robert was unashamed of the tears running down his cheeks. His dismay deepened when Delegate Charles Russell of Virginia stood and declared that if a breakup was at hand, Virginia would go with the rest of the South.
Robert looked over to where Matthew was sitting. He and his friend exchanged a long, silent gaze deep with meaning and emotion. Matthew inclined his head and Robert looked in the direction he indicated. Yancey was leaning back in his chair, a broad smile enveloping his face. He had achieved his plan.
Robert waited for the train that would carry him back to Richmond. The Democratic Convention was over. What the delegates had done in Charleston had been done in a hot twilight where nothing had been seen clearly. Action of any sort had been deemed desirable over the unendurable present. Robert knew they had acted under the shadow of acts committed in other places—in Congress, in Kansas, at Harper’s Ferry. He realized with a heavy heart that the men given the responsibility of making decisions for all Americans had ceased to be free agents and had become men directed by the passions of their time.
Robert had stayed all the way through the end of the convention. He had watched with a heavy heart as the cotton state delegates formed their own convention and developed their own platform. He had watched from the gallery of Institution Hall as vote after vote was taken in an effort to win the two-thirds majority needed for Senator Douglas to gain the party nomination. Finally, the convention had thrown in the towel. No one was getting anywhere. With a drop of his gavel, Caleb Cushing announced that the convention would meet again on June 18. They would try again later.
“I’m sorry, Robert. Things may go differently in Baltimore on the eighteenth.” Matthew tried to sound like he believed it.
Robert decided to play his game. “Maybe. There is time for change. The Douglas people may be able to win new Southern delegates who won’t be as stiff-necked. Or maybe Douglas will realize there is no hope for him and simply withdraw so someone less troublesome can be nominated.” He didn’t believe it for a minute. He had witnessed firsthand the passion ruling men’s hearts and minds.
Matthew nodded. “It could happen.” The sound of the train made them both realize their time together was almost over. “Look, Robert, I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, but I don’t want our friendship to be infected with the same disease eating at the heart of this country. You are too important to m