Freedom's Call Page 8

  “Not sure, sir. But no doubt, that’s what riled up the crowd, especially with the policeman’s widow being a cripple and all. It’s unfortunate all around.” He paused, pulling in a deep breath as he shook his head. “They say there were thousands, and some just decided to take justice into their own hands.”

  “And McIntosh ends up getting burned at the stake.” Mr. Lovejoy looked upward. “God rest his soul. God help us all!”

  * * * * *

  For the next several weeks, Mr. Lovejoy penned blistering editorials in the Observer. He described the recent events as “savage barbarity” and encouraged all those who had been involved to come forward and seek forgiveness.

  The judge in the case, Luke Lawless, shocked many—not only in the region, but also across the country—when he gave his instructions to the grand jury. He told them that although McIntosh’s death was a tragedy and violated the law, because it was perpetrated by thousands, it was beyond the reach of human law.

  Lawless went on to blame Mr. Lovejoy’s editorials for stirring up a frenzy amongst the community. When the Observer argued that slavery was a sin that should be abolished, Lawless maintained Mr. Lovejoy’s position was only stirring the slaves to revolt. The judge acknowledged the right of freedom of the press, but questioned why society should be a victim of “sanctimonious madmen.” The grand jury found no one guilty.

  A young state legislator from Illinois, Abraham Lincoln, condemned the substitution of “wild and furious passions” for the law.

  Mr. Lovejoy was so moved by all that had happened that he sank into a severe depressive state, feeling personally responsible. He went as far as to say he did not deserve to live. He would rather “be chained to the same tree as McIntosh and share his fate.” He felt the judge’s ruling encouraged mob violence and went on to editorialize that he’d rather have the office of the Observer “scattered in fragments to the four winds” than accept the doctrines promoted by Judge Lawless.

  * * * * *

  As expected, mob action became the order of the day. One night, a group of people ransacked the printing office. The following morning, Charlotte began to clean up with Brady as Mr. Lovejoy surveyed the shambles of the room. She kneeled to pick up scattered type strewn across the floor. Then the thought of her sewing machine flashed into her head. She jumped to her feet. Had they ransacked that? She dashed toward the back room. A quick glance toward the far corner caught a pile of fabrics stacked high on her table. She pushed them aside to find her sewing machine still intact. What a relief! Charlotte gently patted it, pulled in a breath, then collapsed into her chair, a loud exhale escaping through twitching lips. She took a few moments to settle her grateful heart, then returned to the front room.

  Mr. Lovejoy sat at Brady’s desk, his head in his hands.

  “They’re only material things,” Brady consoled him from behind, his hand on his shoulder. “That trunk of clothing, the furniture—what a shame, though, I know that was new.”

  “Wait a minute,” Mr. Lovejoy exclaimed while standing abruptly. “That box of wedding gifts. It was right beside my desk.” He rushed back to his office, Charlotte and Brady close at his heels.

  “Gone! Those wretched scoundrels!” He slumped in his desk chair and cast his gaze to the heavens.

  “This makes a decision for me much easier,” he proclaimed, pounding his fist on the desk. He peered into the eyes of first Brady, and then Charlotte. “I’ve been thinking about making the move to the free state of Illinois.” He exhaled deeply. “Should be a bit calmer over there. Brady, I know this isn’t your long-term dream job, but I could really use your help if you could somehow stick it out until we get over the hump. I will not let them stop me.” He stood up and straightened his back. “I have every right to print my views in this country. I want to start again in Alton, Illinois. It’s only a short ways up the river, but on the free side. Seems to make a lot of sense. Are you with me?”

  “Amen, sir.” Brady’s eyes widened. “I do have an uncle who lives up that way. I’m sure he’d let me stay with him—at least for a while.”

  “What about you, Charlotte? You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  “I don’t know, sir. I do have some cousins around there. Maybe. Would I be able to run my sewing business up there? Come to think of it, the likes of Mrs. Dithers wouldn’t be around to pester me.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble to secure you that new invention for nothing.”

  Her eyebrows lowered as her brow furrowed. “To be honest with you, my head’s just not thinking. Ever since the McIntosh tragedy, I’ve been in a state of shock.” Inwardly, she reflected on how guilty she felt for thinking about her sewing business before Mr. Lovejoy’s overwhelming issues.

  * * * * *

  Several Sundays later, the late-July sun was making for a steamy day as Brady walked sprightly from church with Uncle Raymond and Aunt Shirley. Passersby tipped their hats, saying, “Good day.”

  “Alton sure seems to be a bustling town,” Brady said. “How many people do you suppose live here?”

  “I figure there’s now more than twenty-five hundred people and fifty stores.” Uncle Raymond grasped his wife’s elbow to help her over a protruding tree root blocking the pathway. “I think there’s a good future here. I know my wood supply business with the steamboats is sure thriving.”

  “Maybe that’s what I should be doing just to be close up to those beauties.” A vision of being on a wood supply scow in his failed pursuit of Sandford flashed across, then right out of, his mind. “At least, I get to go down to the wharf tomorrow to unload Mr. Lovejoy’s new press off the Palmyra. It actually is due in today, but Mr. Lovejoy doesn’t want us dealing with it on a Sunday. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

  After a few moments of walking in silence, Aunt Shirley tipped her bonnet-shaded face his way, little blond curls fringing her forehead. “So, Brady, how are you liking our church after a few weeks?”

  “Fine. I’ve met some nice people more my age.” Brady smiled as he spotted a family with a couple more teens ahead of them. He wished his aunt and uncle would speed up their gait so they’d catch up.

  “Today’s sermon surprised me, though.”

  “How’s that?” Aunt Shirley’s brow furrowed, crinkling up under those silly curls. Behind them, the church tower’s bell tolled noon.

  “Well, I’m surprised a pastor in a free state would use the Bible to defend slavery.”

  His uncle looked away and then back while scratching his head. “There’s no doubt there were plenty of instances of it way back in those days of the Mosaic law. From the early days, slavery was not denounced.” He hastened his steps.

  Brady turned quiet, his mind not wanting to process further. Just when he thought he was getting to know his relatives, they now seemed foreign. Now his steps indeed were less sprightly, the sun less bright.

  * * * * *

  On Monday morning, just after the clock struck 7:00 a.m., Brady hurried down to the wharf with some other strong lads to retrieve the new press from the Palmyra.

  It soon became evident that some dastardly mischief had been perpetrated the night before. Some people were gawking and pointing out along the shore of the Mississippi.

  “No, no!” Brady yelled out. “This can’t be. We’re in the free state of Illinois now!” Fear trickled up his throat. He caught his breath, then stomped anxiously to the shoreline, the tips of his boots now wet. He could hardly believe what his eyes now focused on. Not furniture, or even wedding gifts. A gray crown-like piece of metal stood up just above the water’s rippling surface, an iceberg of steel surely anchoring it from below. Must have taken several men to muscle that hunk of a press. It now lay still at a most unwelcome resting place—the bottom of the river.

  Brady stared down and shook his head in search of some answer. A hand-sized stone lay at his feet. He picked it up and
flung it as far as he could out into the river, hoping the magnitude of its splash would somehow be as great as his outrage. “You’re what belongs in the water!” he shouted.

  The press was not salvageable. This time, Mr. Lovejoy’s fortitude could not overcome the stark reality. He would break down weeping, inconsolable. His hopes and dreams were drowning in intolerance.

  Chapter 14

  Several days later Brady sat with Charlotte in the office listening intently as Mr. Lovejoy tried to bring focus to their efforts in light of the recent setbacks. His arms waved, conveying an extra bit of unleashed emotion.

  “We will continue to be primarily a religious newspaper promoting missionary work and personal repentance.” The man’s round face somehow appeared gaunt on this day, his full lips pressed flat. Even the fluffy wave of hair at the front top of his head lacked its normal buoyancy. “I have some additional financial backing in that regard. But that does not mean I’ll remain silent when it comes to slavery. It is an awful evil and sin. In addition, under no circumstances will I give up the right of conscience, the freedom of opinion, and freedom of the press.”

  “But sir?” Char scooted to the edge of her chair. “Are we not missing a key ingredient—a press?” Her big black shoes planted firmly on the floor, she tapped a pencil against a notepad.

  “For the time being, the good people at the Alton Telegraph have agreed to print the Observer for us. Bless them. A new press is due in September.”

  “I do wonder about your family.” Charlotte smoothed her cotton skirt over her knees—a simple affordable skirt not nearly as nice as some she sewed. She folded her hands on her lap. “How’s Celia Ann holding up under all this?”

  “Amazingly well, considering her health problems. She’s never whispered a hint of discontent at all the hardships we’ve had to endure.” He reached to twist his wedding ring around his finger. “Despite people shunning and hating me, she has devotedly stuck by my side, clinging to me more closely than ever. What a strong woman. What a blessing God has provided to me!”

  “Very impressive. It’s just too bad so many people around here are not receptive to your antislavery message,” Brady said. He tried to picture a map of Illinois in his mind. “Maybe we need to move farther north?”

  “I’m in no mood to move again.” Mr. Lovejoy jutted out his jaw and pursed his lips, the resolve in his sparkling eyes now appearing as hard as diamonds. “We’ve got to make it work here.” His chest heaved, then contracted. Like a dog protecting its territory, his muscles seemed coiled at the ready for the fight.

  Brady rubbed his throbbing temples, drawing a deep breath. “It doesn’t help when pastors, like the one at my uncle’s church, say slavery was in the Bible, so it must be OK.”

  “He and others like him are misguided, son.” Mr. Lovejoy pressed his lips together and looked each of them squarely in the eye. “There’s a difference between providing servitude for a period of time for a fee, like in biblical days, and the slavery of today. Modern slavery is chattel slavery where people are deemed possessions that can be bought and sold. As a possession, they can be treated any way the owner sees fit.”

  “But a lot of owners treat their slaves quite well,” Brady responded. “I can see how they became content with that.” He closed a folder on his desk and set it aside.

  “True, but they’re still denying black people their basic right of freedom.” Mr. Lovejoy headed toward his office but then spun back around with authority. “Jesus proclaimed for all of us a common brotherhood as children of God. The apostle Paul said in Galatians, ‘[T]here is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’ ”

  * * * * *

  As Brady left the office later with Charlotte, her silence surprised him. A curious detachment wandered in her eyes. He nudged her arm with his elbow. “Why so quiet, Char?”

  “Never mind me. You just go on by yourself.” She tilted her chin down and frowned.

  “Why?” He shuffled back a step. “What’s the matter?”

  “I think I’ve finally figured you out, Brady Scott. Why don’t you just call me Friday? And I can start calling you Robinson Crusoe.”

  “What?” He tripped over one foot, rocked to a halt, and whirled toward her.

  “You treat me so nice all the time. It’s not because you’re fond of me.”

  Huh? He blinked at her. Her hands clasped her waist each side, her elbows jutting out. “What are you talking about? I adore you!” He reached for her hand, but she guarded hers.

  “I heard it in your voice with Mr. Lovejoy. Everything is OK if you treat us black folks nice. Or if we’re white enough and not too black. Don’t you think I remember that time you didn’t shake Malcolm’s hand? Then when Mama tried to give you a big hug, you couldn’t get out of her grasp fast enough!”

  “Char, please . . . I just wasn’t comfortable.” He released a heavy sigh as his jaw tightened.

  “Yeah, because they were too black. You can’t get past thinking a black man killed your mother. All this business with Mr. Lovejoy. All you care about is being able to say what you want—freedom of the press. That’s all that matters to you! Yeah, it would be nice to get rid of slavery while you’re at it. But if not, as long as you’re nice to us, it’s OK.” She wiped tears from her eyes.

  Before Brady could craft a response, she had run ahead toward her cousin’s home as a steady brisk wind buffeted his sullen face.

  * * * * *

  Slamming the front door behind him, Brady stormed into his uncle’s house and plopped onto the living room sofa.

  “I’ve had it at that newspaper.” He scowled at Aunt Shirley, who had come scurrying in from the kitchen. “The Observer can get by just fine without me.” He punched at a pillow beside him, then punched it again.

  “But I thought you so admired Mr. Lovejoy, not to mention that Charlotte girl. You talk about them all the time.”

  “Well, talk is one thing. They’re really looking for a better person at the core.”

  “Oh, I see,” came his aunt’s reply even as her forehead knit as if she didn’t see at all. “There’s some other things going on.” She looked off into the distance. “Maybe I’d better round you up something to drink.” She headed back to the kitchen.

  Brady stared toward the floor. The intricate weaving of the rug his aunt had braided stood out. Now there was a product of her hard work—something she loved doing. She returned to the room and handed him a glass.

  “Thank you, Auntie.” He took a big swallow of lemonade and contemplated. “You know, how did I end up getting stuck in this newspaper business, anyway?”

  “Well, we never really know where God is going to put us, do we?” She cocked her head to the side and tried to lock eyes with him.

  “Besides, it’s become really dangerous.” Another large gulp brought a slight gagging reaction to the overly sour lemonade. “You never know what the next mob is going to do! Whatever happened to becoming a steamboat pilot? That was my dream job.”

  “That’s right.” She walked to the window and gazed out. After a moment, she turned toward Brady. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this now. You’ll have to talk to your uncle when he gets home.”

  “Tell me, Aunt Shirley. Please.” He crossed his arms.

  “Well, you seemed so intent on following Mr. Lovejoy, we didn’t want to confuse matters. After all, you moved all the way up here to live with us.”

  Brady stomped his foot. “Aunt Shirley!”

  “All right. Your uncle’s wood business has been going so well, he’s invested in another scow. He wants you to be in charge of it.”

  * * * * *

  An arduous trip poling their scow up the Ohio River to Shawneetown had left them all exhausted. Brady slumped down on a burlap bag of cornmeal to rest with two helpers, Jim and Car
l, who had just loaded up new provisions into his uncle’s scow. They were docked not far from the general store on shore. The smell of burning tobacco from the store clerk’s pipe still lingered on his shirt.

  “I think that’s about all the room we’ve got for cornmeal. With all the wood and this case of salt beef, I’m sure glad we’re headed back downstream.”

  “When are we supposed to hook up with the Cumberland?” Jim raked his fingers through his thin black hair, leaving wayward strands dangling in the breeze.

  “About two hours downstream, so we’ve got plenty of time.” Brady tipped his head up to admire the flight of a golden hawk passing overhead. Being back on the water was a real joy. Developing new business on the Ohio was one of his uncle’s goals, and Brady was happy to be a part of that.

  “Untie that rope, Carl.” Brady hopped to his feet. “Let’s cast off. We’ve got a beautiful day going. Let’s take advantage of it.” Some wood ducks skimming water’s surface took off flying.

  Several miles downriver, a strong wind picked up. As they rounded a bend, that wind carried a woman’s plaintive voice. Far ahead on the shore, Brady saw her waving to get their attention, her arms crossing back and forth above her attractive head.

  “Please help,” she cried. “We’re desperate. Do you have any food you could spare?” A piece of the woman’s torn sleeve flapped in the breeze.

  Feeling it worthy to pursue this woman’s predicament, Brady motioned for the other fellows to steer ashore.

  “Wait here,” he instructed. “I’ll go check it all out.” He jumped on the nearest rock on shore and strode toward the woman.

  “Thank you for stopping, kind sir.” She tucked in strands of blond hair on each side, but a half-smile revealed crooked and stained teeth.

  “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

  “My family’s not doing well. They’re all up in the cave. Do you mind stopping in?” She pointed back.

  “Cave?” Brady scanned farther up from the shore.