Candle in the Darkness (13 page)

For the first month, the memory of Esther’s fragrant kitchen, filled with all the people I loved, remained fresh and clear, a tiny pocket of solace and warmth amid the ice and cold of Philadelphia. I dwelt on those memories, fanning them like embers to keep them alive, anxious for them not to die—the sound of Eli’s deep, rumbling voice as he talked to Massa Jesus; the touch of Tessie’s dark hands as they gently soothed, caressed, loved. I kept thoughts of Virginia burning like tiny flames as I counted the weeks and the months until I could return.

The morning in March when everything changed began innocently enough—with Uncle Philip reading the
Philadelphia Inquirer
as he did every morning at breakfast. His choice to read rather than to give his full attention to my aunt was a constant source of friction between the two of them. Because of it, he’d developed the habit of reading a sentence or two aloud every now and then so his wife couldn’t accuse him of ignoring her.

“I see Pierce Butler’s mansion here in town is going up for sale,” he said, adjusting his rimless spectacles. Aunt Martha’s interest was instantly piqued.

“Oh? That’s a lovely home. I know several people who might be interested in buying it.”

“Well, it should sell for a bargain. It seems Butler ran up enormous gambling debts. But listen to this . . . this is truly tragic. ‘A racetrack in Savannah, Georgia, was converted into a slave auction to dispose of 436 of Butler’s Negro slaves. The unfortunate men, women, and children—who dubbed the event “The Weeping Time”—were sold to the highest bidder without regard for family ties, earning a total of $303,850 toward Butler’s debts.’ My! That should add fuel to the abolitionists’ fires!”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Aunt Martha said. “That seems like an awfully large number of slaves. I certainly don’t recall any plantations around Richmond having that many, do you, Caroline? How many darkies does your uncle work with at Hilltop?”

“Um . . . about fifty.” I could barely answer. I recalled the terrible anxiety that had gripped Hilltop’s slaves after my grandfather had died, their tension and their fear as they’d waited, wondering who would be sold. I could well imagine the grief Pierce Butler’s slaves must have suffered.

“I don’t understand how people can
own
other people,” my cousin Julia said, “much less buy and sell them like a new hat. That seems very wrong.”

“That’s because you girls were raised with servants, not slaves,” my aunt replied. Her Virginia drawl, undetectable in most social situations, always became more pronounced whenever she grew annoyed. “Not every slave owner treats his people as callously as Pierce Butler did. Why, some of the slaves back home are just like family, aren’t they, Caroline? And they certainly receive better treatment than the immigrants who labor in Northern factories. You’ve seen South Philadelphia where they live, Julia. Nobody provides those people with free clothing and food like we give our slaves.”

I recalled my cousin Jonathan once voicing a similar argument.

“That may be true, my dear,” Uncle Philip said, folding his newspaper. “But Northern factory workers are free to leave their place of employment whenever they choose. And they don’t have their families torn from their arms like these poor souls did.”

I pushed my plate away, unable to eat any more. The newspaper account had changed everything for me. The happy memories of home that I’d been keeping alive were suddenly overwhelmed by a flood of uglier ones—memories of dirt-floored shacks on Slave Row, of mothers who’d rather see their babies die than be sold, of the slave market on Fourteenth Street. And the still-vivid memory of Grady being dragged away, screaming for his mother.

I reread the newspaper account of “The Weeping Time” for myself after my uncle left for work, and I could no longer bear to think of home. The fire of longing that I’d nurtured had been coldly extinguished. I didn’t want to go back to a place where 436 men, women, and children could be sold and separated from their loved ones like cattle. I wanted to forget that the people I loved— Tessie and Eli and Esther—were my father’s property.

It proved easy to forget home, to lose myself in the rush and dazzle of life in Philadelphia. Everything about the city was frantic and fast-paced compared to Richmond, from the traffic that clogged the streets to the boisterous activity and lively visitors that filled and sometimes overflowed the house. My aunt and cousins were swept up in an almost endless series of parties, balls, and social gatherings, and I allowed them to carry me away with them. Since Cousin Rosalie and her mother were on a mission to find Rosalie a husband, every social occasion became a hunting expedition.

Rosalie was seventeen, a year older than me, and her life revolved entirely around meeting, wooing, and marrying the best possible “catch” in all of Philadelphia. As the daughter of a prominent, wealthy judge, she could well afford to be choosy. She was a very pretty girl—many said beautiful—with fine brown hair, hazel eyes, and the sort of fragile, delicate bone structure that made men rush to protect and assist her. But as I grew to know Rosalie, her excruciating perfectionism in matters of her clothing, her hair, and her toiletries—not to mention the importance she placed on her suitors’ wealth and social status—diminished her beauty in my eyes. I grew to think of her as “pointy”; her nose and chin were pointy, her eyebrows as thin and as pointy as knife blades, her elbows and knees bony and sharp. But her tongue was by far the most pointed of all. I quickly learned to agree with her, to defer to her, and above all, to never, never outshine her.

Cousin Julia, who was still too young for a husband, wanted one anyway and flirted shamelessly, falling in love with a new beau every week. She was fifteen and still very much her father’s spoiled pet. Physically, the two girls were as different as sisters could be. Julia was not fat, but everything about her was soft and full—her pouty lips, her pink cheeks, her dark brown eyes, her ample bosom. The latter was a constant source of jealousy on Rosalie’s part, since she wasn’t nearly as well endowed. Julia’s golden brown, naturally curly hair was soft and full as well, and when she unpinned it, she looked as angelic as a cherub in an illustrated Bible. But her cherubic appearance belied her lively, unreserved personality.

Of course, we needed to be fashionably clothed for every social occasion, so Aunt Martha hired a dressmaker. She outfitted all four of us in day dresses for afternoon social calls and for entertaining callers at home, and in ball gowns for parties and evening affairs. I fell in love with the glamour and sway of taffeta petticoats and hoops, the swish and flow of fine silk skirts, the tickle of lace on wrist and neck. I became nearly as vain as Rosalie, primping and posing in front of the mirror, arranging my thick brown hair, admiring my tiny waist and high bosom. I was very pleased with the pretty, grown-up girl who gazed back at me. All this relentless activity helped me forget home, and as I watched my aunt in her unguarded moments, I sometimes wondered if it helped her forget, too.

Because I was somewhat of a novelty in Philadelphia—the Hoffmans’ Southern cousin with her quiet, velvety drawl—the invitations poured through our mail slot. All my life I’d been painfully shy and fearful of new situations, and although that hadn’t changed much, it proved no deterrent to my flowering social life. Rosalie was scheming and socially determined, fearing no one; Julia was lively and outgoing, fearing nothing; I simply floated in their wake. My natural shyness and reserve became part of my mystique as a Southern belle. And if the Hoffmans’ cousin Robert was with me, I didn’t even have to finish my own sentences—he finished them for me.

Robert Hoffman had become a fixture around our house that spring. He was Rosalie and Julia’s cousin, not mine, and he lived on the same street that we did. Since his family was invited to most of the same social functions we were, Robert assumed the duty of escorting me. When the weather finally turned nice, he showed me all the sights of Philadelphia, sometimes riding on the new public horsecars that traveled the city streets on iron rails. Robert was fascinated with war, and no matter which site we visited— whether viewing displays of birds and insects at the National Academy of Sciences or strolling in Fairmont Park on a Sunday afternoon—his comments invariably turned into a lengthy monologue about the American Revolution or the second war with the British. Rosalie would tell him plainly to shut up. Julia would sigh and roll her eyes. And both would eventually wander away to leave me his sole audience.

Robert planned to attend West Point Military Academy in the fall, hoping to become a great army general, but I had trouble picturing him as a soldier. He had the same softness that Julia did, like a puppy that hasn’t quite outgrown its baby fat. With his dark, glossy hair, swarthy skin, and soulful, down-turned eyes, he reminded me more of a mournful Spanish poet than a spit-andpolish military commander. His palms were sweaty, his monologues boring, and he danced as if his shoes were on the wrong feet, but I clung willingly to his arm, grateful that I didn’t have to face new people and new situations all alone.

Robert escorted me to the extravagant ball that was given when the Academy of Music’s opera house opened that year, but I quickly lost sight of him in the deluge of young gentlemen requesting the honor of a dance with me. I barely caught the first gentleman’s name and a glimpse of his face before he swept me out onto the dance floor. Then the agonizing task of making conversation began.

“Good evening, miss. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

“Um . . . I’m Caroline Fletcher. Perhaps you know my uncle, Judge Philip Hoffman?”

“Caroline Fletcher,” he repeated, imitating my Southern accent. “I must confess that I already knew that, Miss Fletcher. I just wanted to listen to your voice. I love the dreamy way
y’all
stretch out your words,” he said, imitating me again. I excused myself and tried to flee the moment the music stopped, but I was immediately swept away by another would-be suitor.

“Judge Hoffman certainly lives with a house full of beauties,” this one told me. “But I believe you’re the prettiest one of them all. May I have the honor of calling on you sometime?”

I shook my head. His flattery did not gain my interest. “My uncle does not wish me to accept callers,” I lied.

“I hear you’re from down south, Miss Fletcher,” my next dancing partner said. I’d forgotten his name the moment he’d told it to me.

“Yes. I’m from Richmond, Virginia.”

“How many slaves do you own?”

“Why, I don’t own any.”

“Come now, Miss Fletcher. I’m not criticizing you or anything. I’m just curious to know what it feels like to own a few darkies.”

“I really wouldn’t know. As I’ve already told you, I don’t own any Negroes.”

“Say, you don’t have to get in a temper. I’ve visited down south, and I understand how much your economy depends on slave labor.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Tell you the truth, I’m on your side. I can’t stand the way all these uppity free Negroes strut around Philadelphia.”

I turned and walked away from him without even thanking 101 him for the dance.

“You must have read
Uncle Tom’s Cabin,
” my next partner said. “What do you make of it? Are things down south really as horrible as Miss Stowe portrays them?”

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t read the book.”

“Oh, you should, Miss Fletcher. It’s quite a vivid account. But then, you’ve probably seen firsthand some of the things she describes—husbands and wives sold to different owners, children separated from their mothers, slaves whipped . . .”

I wanted to weep. Everywhere I went, it seemed that people wanted to discuss slavery, yet they talked about it as if it was an abstract concept. It wasn’t abstract to me. Slaves were real-life people with individual faces and souls. I knew some of those faces, loved some of those souls, and it broke my heart to be reminded of the truth about them—that Josiah and Tessie weren’t allowed to be man and wife; that Grady had been torn without warning from his mother’s arms; that Eli could be whipped for secretly preaching about Jesus in the pine grove or killed for knowing how to read.

“It’s very warm in here,” I said. “Would you mind fetching me some punch?”

“I’d be happy to, Miss Fletcher. You wait right here, now. And don’t go wandering off with anyone else, all right?”

As soon as the gentleman disappeared into the crowd, heading for the punch bowl, I searched the sea of faces for Cousin Robert’s. When I spotted him talking to an older gentleman in a military uniform, I fled to Robert’s side like a drowning woman swimming for a lifeboat. I heard the end of his conversation, and thankfully it wasn’t about slavery.

“. . . I’m just afraid there won’t be any more battles left to fight by the time I get my officer’s commission—” Robert stopped when he saw me. “Caroline? What’s wrong? You’re quite pale.”

“Too much dancing, I guess. It’s made me feel a little dizzy.”

“Do you want to step outside for some air?”

“Yes, please.”

“Will you excuse us, sir?” he asked the uniformed gentleman. Robert offered him a flabby salute before taking my hand. His palm was clammy, as usual, but I didn’t care. I felt safe with him. He was always too busy talking about battles and wars to pester me with questions about slavery or the South.

“Are you having fun so far?” he asked after we’d stepped outside. Then, without waiting for a reply, he said, “I had the most interesting chat with Colonel Marshall. He fought in the Mexican War, you know, and he related several fascinating experiences. . . .” Robert talked on and on about the Mexican War for several minutes, but I wasn’t listening. When he finally asked if I was ready to go back inside, I had a desperate idea.

“Robert, I really don’t want to dance with anyone but you. Would it be terribly rude if we told everyone else to go away?”

His face registered surprise. For once in his life I think he was speechless. The balcony where we stood was quite dark, but I’m certain I saw his face flush with pleasure.

“Of course not, Caroline . . . d-dear. To tell you the truth, I really don’t want to share you with all the others.”