Storm Clouds Rolling In (74 page)

“And what makes you think you know what’s right or wrong?”

Carrie flinched under the heavy sarcasm in his voice, but she was determined to press through. Long hours alone with her troubled thoughts had convinced her Robert was not an evil person—he was a person who needed hate cleansed from his heart. She didn’t really expect her words to do the job, but she had to try. She took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I went alone to my place to have it out with God. I so needed to know the truth.” As best as she could, she relived that day for him. “I believe I heard God that day. I believe I saw his heart. I don’t believe people are supposed to own each other. Love is supposed to be the greatest law, and the determiner of how we treat one another.”

“But the Bible says blacks are inferior!
The laws that apply to us simply don’t apply to them.”

“No, it doesn’t!”
Carrie said firmly. “That is simply a lie we have created to make ourselves feel better about exploiting an entire race of people for our own gain.” She pressed on. “Slavery in ancient times was not based on color. If ancient slavery makes the institution right, then it means slavery is acceptable for white people. Under that reasoning, there is no reason someone might not make a slave of you! How would you feel about it then?”

“That’s ridiculous!” Robert snorted.

“Is it?” Carrie questioned gently.
“You are no more deserving of slavery than the millions of people we are controlling now.”

“You own slaves yourself, Carrie!”

Carrie shook her head decisively. “I own not a single slave, Robert. They all belong to my father. If I had my way, I would let every single one of them go.” She saw no reason to tell him she had already granted freedom to seventeen of the Cromwell slaves and that the rest were free to leave.

“And what about Cromwell Plantation
then
?”

Carrie shrugged.
She knew Robert was thinking of Oak Meadows and trying to envision it with no slaves. “Prosperity founded on another man’s subjugation is not a thing I desire. The South is full of people who will never own a slave. They are supporting themselves by their own labor. I find that preferable.”

Robert, completely nonplussed, gazed at her angrily. “So you’re saying that if I want you as my wife, I must get rid of all my slaves?”

              arrie shook her head. “You could get rid of all your slaves, and it would make no difference at all.”

“What then?” Robert cried.
“What is it that you want from me?”

“It’s not what I want
from
you, Robert. It’s what I want
for
you. You are a prisoner of your own hatred. Your hate doesn’t come from your actions. It is your actions that spring from your hate.” She paused, her eyes pleading with him. “Ask God to show you the truth, Robert. If you’re right, there is nothing to be afraid of.”

Robert turned to stare out over the city.
Carrie watched the struggle on his face—fear mixed with anger in a battle for dominance. His anger won. Carrie knew the memories of his father haunted him.

Whirling, he cried out.
“There is nothing that will make me believe a nigger is my equal. It was a nigger who killed my daddy!”

“And it was a white man who killed the little boy on Oak Meadows Plantation.”

Robert stared down at her.
“What are you talking about?”

“
I know, Robert,” Carrie said. “I know you beat three of your slaves after some of them ran away. I know the little boy died.” She took a deep breath. “I know you murdered a child.”

Robert looked at her wildly.
“They are my people! I can do with them what I want.”

Carrie shook her head.
When she spoke, her voice was oddly quiet. “They, just like you and I, are
God’s
people. And he wept when you destroyed one of them.” She stood up. “I would like to go home now.” She turned and began to walk down the street.

Robert followed, but not a word passed between them.
Carrie nodded her head when she reached her front door, looked at him deeply for a moment, and moved into the house.

Carrie said not a word to her father
, who looked up from his paper as she entered the hallway. He merely watched her as she heavily climbed the stairs. Only when Carrie reached her room did she allow the avalanche of tears to consume her. She had done what she knew she must. She also knew the pain would never go away.

Robert left for Charleston on the first train the next morning.
             

THIRTY-FIVE

Robert strolled slowly along the Battery of Charleston, watching the parade of people jostle by.
That Charleston was a city preparing for war, no sensible person could deny. Proud militia units, sporting the bright colors of their identifying uniforms, strutted around him like proud peacocks all too willing to preen their glory. Women, eager to be a part of the wondrous events happening in their own fair city, flocked to the streets every day. They peered into the harbor with eyeglasses, hoping to catch sight of the shot that would finally end their waiting and escort them into the glory Southern politicians promised so freely and easily. Drums rolling and parades snaking through the streets had become a daily occurrence.

Robert watched all of it, as he had been doing for several weeks, before he moved to lean on one of the railings and peer out to sea.
He had completed what he had been sent to do. Stacked neatly in his hotel room were thick sheaves of documents accounting for and describing the military operations that had turned Charleston into a bedlam of activity. He heaved a heavy sigh, rested his chin in his hand, and stared out at Fort Sumter— the unseeming cause of the entire furor surrounding him. He was ready to go home.

“You don’t look too excited to be here, young man.”

Robert started and turned.
“Excuse me?” The man standing before him had a shock of white hair tumbling down over vivid blue eyes that regarded him sharply.

“I said you don’t look too excited to be here.”

Robert shrugged.
He didn’t sense any judgment coming from the man, and his observation was certainly not inaccurate. “I’ve been here long enough.”

“You mean to say you’re not enthralled by all the chaos exploding in your fair city?”

“It’s not my city. I’m just visiting.”

“You and a few thousand others,” the older man snorted.
“You with one of the militia units sent to fire on that paltry number of soldiers trapped out in our harbor?”

Robert shook his head and eyed the other man closely.
“Your name is?”

“The name is Crawford, son.
Dr. Adam Crawford. I’ve lived in this city all my life.”

Robert took the hand extended to him, drawn to the direct, open manner.
“My name is Robert Borden. Virginia is my home—a plantation close to Richmond.”

“Lured by the smell of blood are you?”

Robert was aware he was being baited—tested for some reason—but he had no idea why. He opted for honesty. He had no idea who this man was, and he had no reason to play games with him. “No, sir. I’m down here at the request of the governor to evaluate and report on the military fortifications of the city. I am done. I plan on returning home soon.”

Crawford barked a laugh.
“I wouldn’t leave now, boy. You’ll miss the best part of the show!”

Robert stared at him, beginning to wonder if the man might be a little crazy.
The steady shine of his eyes reassured him. “Why do you say that, sir?”

“There are lots of people down here on the Battery watching the peripheral parts of this crisis.
They count the number of troops coming into our city. They keep track of every gun and cannon being added to the arsenal of power surrounding Fort Sumter. Me? I spend my time looking at the inner guts of what is going on. That’s where all the real action is. What you’re looking at is no more than an outward show of what’s going on behind the scenes.” Crawford paused and stared out at Sumter. “The waiting will soon be over, boy. The South can’t afford to let Fort Sumter continue to defy them.” He snorted. “Up until now it’s been like a little hangnail. It was irritating, but it could be dealt with. The South has stalled, using Buchanan’s indecision to help them reach the place they want to be. With Lincoln in office, the hangnail has suddenly become a serious infection.”

“So they’ve got to get rid of the infection,” Robert observed.

“Sure they do! But it’s more than that. All the states who jumped so fast to form this Confederacy of the Southern States figured all the other states would jump on board as soon as they sounded the call. It’s not happening quite the way they figured. People follow passion, Robert. Always have and always will. President Davis and our leaders know that. They know it’s time to give the people some passion—something to rally behind.” He paused, and then continued, his voice grim. “They know it’s time to give them some blood.”

Robert frowned.
“You sound as if you think they’re wrong.” He wasn’t sure why it bothered him. He wasn’t even sure it did. And he had no idea why this total stranger was talking to him. He stared at Crawford. “A lot of people around here wouldn’t take kindly to what you’re saying.”

Crawford laughed heartily.
“My boy, I reached the point, years ago, when I quit basing what I believe on what other people think. People have been frowning at me ever since.” He paused. “I have to live with myself, Robert. Other people have to live with themselves.”

“Do you think the war is wrong, sir?”
Suddenly Robert was eager to talk with this man.

Crawford shrugged.
“It’s not a war yet, my boy.” He sighed heavily. “It’s just a matter of time, though, I know.” He shook his head sadly. “Can any war be right? Especially when the sheep being sent off to fight the battle have no real idea of what is going on.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

Crawford smiled slightly. “Robert, the South has attracted the young and the poor to their radical banner with lies. I suppose there is no other way to induce people to jump into the tragedy of war. They have been told the act of secession will produce no opposition of a serious nature, that not a drop of blood will be spilled. They have been told no one’s property will be destroyed. They have been promised unbroken prosperity—even greater prosperity because cotton will control all of Europe.” He sighed heavily. “People believe what they want to believe. They also believe what people in leadership tell them. That is their first mistake.”

Robert searched for the right response.
“I take it you don’t believe all this, Mr. Crawford.”

Crawford turned to stare out at Sumter again.
“Robert, I know there are close to seven thousand men crowding the city of Charleston who have only one reason for being here—to commit an act of war against one hundred twenty-eight poorly armed Union soldiers sitting in that fort. Someday people will probably call this a battle, but I think that is a mockery of the term. Those men are nothing but sitting ducks. Our new government is going to use them to rally the Southern people.” He paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t believe most people understand it...” He laughed shortly. “But whoever waited for the common man when a great move was to be made? Our leaders have decided to make the move and simply force them to follow. They believe this is the way of all revolutions and all great achievements. If they wait until the mind of everybody is made up they will wait forever and never do anything.”