Stanley burrowed in his pockets for notes Isabel had suggested he prepare to meet such an eventuality. He served Wade two small helpings from his tray of secrets, and when he finished, found the senator's manner distinctly more cordial. Wade asked him to speak to the assistant outside and arrange a meeting at a more secure location where Wade could receive the disclosures without fear of interruption or observation. Dazed, Stanley realized it was all over.
At the door, Wade shook his hand with vigor. "I recall my wife mentioning a levee at your house soon. I look forward to it."
Feeling like a battle-tested hero, Stanley lurched out. Bless Isabel. She had been right after all. There was a conspiracy to unseat the boss, either through congressional action or by presentation of damning information to the President. Was it possible that Stanton was in the scheme, too?
No matter. What counted was his deal with the old crook from Ohio. Like Daniel, he had walked among lions and survived. By midafternoon he was convinced it was all his doing, with Isabel's role incidental.
38
His name was Arthur Scipio Brown. He was twenty-seven, a man the color of amber, with broad shoulders, a waist tiny as a girl's, and hands so huge they suggested weapons. Yet he spoke softly, with the slight nasality of New England. He had been born in Roxbury, outside Boston, of a black mother whose white lover deserted her.
Early in his acquaintance with Constance Hazard, Brown said his mother had sworn not to surrender to the sadness caused by the man who had promised to love her always, then left, or by the way her color impeded her even in liberal Boston. She had spent her mind and her energy — her entire life, he said — serving her race. She had taught the children of free black men and women in a shack school six days a week and given different lessons to pupils in a Negro congregation every Sunday. She had died a year ago, cancer-ridden but holding her boy's hand, clear-eyed and refusing laudanum to the end.
"She was forty-two. Never had much of a life," Brown said. It was a statement, not a plea for pity. "No braver woman ever walked this earth."
Constance met Scipio Brown at the reception for Dr. Delany, the pan-Africanist. In his splendid dyed robes, Delany circulated among the fifty or sixty guests invited to the Chase residence, enthralling them with his conversation. It was Delany who had brought young Brown to the reception.
Falling into conversation with Brown, George and Constance were fascinated by his demeanor as well as his history and his views. He was as tall as Cooper Main, and though he was not well dressed — his frock coat, an obvious hand-me-down, had worn lapels and sleeves that ended two inches above his wrists — he didn't act self-conscious. The clothes were probably the best he owned, and if people were scornful, the problem was theirs, not his.
When Brown said he was a disciple of Martin Delany, Constance asked, "You mean you'd leave the country for Liberia or some equivalent place, given the chance?"
Brown drank some tea. He handled the cup as gracefully as anyone present. "A year ago, I would have said yes immediately. Today, I'm less certain. America is viciously anti-Negro, and I imagine it will remain so for several generations yet. But I anticipate improvements. I believe in Corinthians."
Standing with his head back a few degrees, which was necessary when George conversed with extremely tall men, he said, "I beg your pardon?"
Brown smiled. His head was long, his features regular but unmemorable. His smile, however, seemed to resort those features into a shining amber composition that was immensely attractive and winning. "Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. 'Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall all be changed.'" He drank more tea. "I just hope we don't have to wait until the last trump, which is a part of the verse I left out."
George said, "I grant that your race has suffered enormous tribulation. But wouldn't you say that you personally have been fortunate? You grew up free, and you've lived that way all your life."
Unexpectedly, Brown showed anger. "Do you honestly think that makes any difference, Major Hazard? Every colored person in this country is enslaved to the fears of whites and to the way those fears influence white behavior. You're fooled because my chains don't show. But I still have them. I am a black man. The struggle is my struggle. Every cross is my cross — in Alabama or Chicago or right here."
Bristling slightly, George said, "If you consider this country so wicked, what's kept you from leaving?"
"I thought I told you. Hope of change. My studies have taught me that change is one of the world's few constants. America's hypocritical picture of the freedom it offers has been destined to change since the Declaration was signed, because the institution of slavery is evil and never was anything else. I hope the war will hasten abolition. Once I was foolish enough to think the law would accomplish the task, but Dred Scott showed that even the Supreme Court's tainted. The last resort and shelter of despotism."
George refused to surrender. "I'll grant much of what you say, Brown. But not that remark about American freedom being hypocritical. I think you overstate the case."
"I disagree. But if so" — the smile warmed away any antagonism — "consider it one of the few privileges of my color."
"So it's hope of change that keeps you here — " Constance began.
"That and my responsibilities. It's mostly the children who keep me here."
"Ah, you're married."
"No, I'm not."
"Then whose —?"
A call from Kate Chase interrupted. Dr. Delany had consented to speak briefly. The secretary's attractive daughter wanted the guests to refill their cups and plates and find places.
At the serving table, where a young black girl in a domestic's apron gave Brown an admiring glance, George said, "I'd like to hear more of your views. We live at Willard's Hotel —"
"I know."
The statement astonished Constance, though it seemed to pass right by her husband.
"Will you dine with us there some night?"
"Thank you, Major, but I doubt the management would like that. The Willard brothers are decent men, but I'm still one of their employees."
"You're what?"
"I am a porter at Willard's Hotel. It's the best job I could find here. I won't work for the army. The army's running its own peculiar institution these days: hiring my people to cook and chop wood and fetch and carry for a pittance. We're good enough to dig sinks but not good enough to fight. That's why I'm a porter instead."
"Willard's," George muttered. "I'm dumbfounded. Have we ever passed one another in the lobby or the hallways?"
Brown led them toward chairs. "Certainly. Dozens of times.
You may look at me, but you never see me. It's another privilege of color. Mrs. Hazard, will you be seated?"
Later, realizing Brown was right, George started to apologize, but the lanky Negro brushed it away with a smile and a shrug. They had no further opportunity to talk. But Constance remained curious about his reference to children. Next afternoon at the hotel, she searched until she found him removing trash and discarded cigar butts from sand urns. Ignoring stares from people in the lobby, she asked Brown to explain what he meant.
"The children are runaways, what that cross-eyed general Butler calls contrabands. There's a black river flowing out of the South these days. Sometimes children escape with their parents, then the parents get lost. Sometimes the children don't belong to anyone, just tag along after the adults making the dash. Would you like to see some of the children, Mrs. Hazard?"
His eyes fastened on hers, testing. "Where?" she countered.