He cited his "A Series of Letters by a Man of Color," composed four years ago, which opposed the legislature's attempt to force all blacks in the city to register, and his lifelong work as an abolitionist. Mr. Forten then reminded the audience of how central Negroes have been to every dimension of life in the colonies, and how Crispus Attucks was the first to die opposing British tyranny.
"But despite our contributions to this country," Mr. Forten said, "we have not been — and perhaps will never be — accepted by its white citizens. And so, although it makes my heart heavy to do so, I intend to vote — as I hope you will — for taking my chances in the land of our forebears."
The audience was greatly moved by Mr. Forten's address. The applause lasted for several minutes.
He was followed by Paul Cuffe, fifty-eight, a Quaker who for over a decade, and long before the formation of the American Colonization Society, has urged free blacks toward expatriation. As reported earlier in this newspaper (September 8, 1815), Mr. Cuffe, owner of the 268-ton Alpha, is a man whose wisdom is seasoned by his world travels. Among his many vessels are sloops, schooners, and two brigs. He has sailed to Sweden and, on his ship the Traveller, visited Sierra Leone in 1811. There, he set up the Friendly Society, an organization dedicated to helping American blacks migrate to Africa. In fact, three years later Mr. Cuffe transported thirty-eight colored men and women to Sierra Leone and paid for their $4,000 voyage himself. A philanthropist, he created a school for Negro children on his farm and acquired a teacher for them.
As he walked slowly to the stage, still weak from a recent illness, a cheer rose from the gathering. Mr. Cuffe, smiling gently, waited patiently at the podium for the audience to settle down.
"Thank you," he said. "We are all old friends here and have suffered much together over the years. We struggled together thirty-seven years ago to protest taxation of our people when we have no representation. I led that fight, you'll recall. And twenty years ago, my friend there, Absalom Jones, spearheaded our effort to repeal the Fugitive Slave Act. We have all shed our blood for freedom, and of our triumphs I think we should be proud. But as an old fighter, one who has seen many campaigns to achieve justice for the colored people of America, I sometimes wonder how much farther we can go. I won't lie to you. I never have, and I can't start now. My doctor tells me I'll be lucky if I see Thanksgiving this year. With so little time, I think I should tell you the truth, at least as I've been privileged to perceive it.
"Here, in America, we face an uphill struggle. Our victories can be taken away with a single stroke of the pen by men like former president Jefferson. He and others like him have always envisioned the United States as a white man's nation, irrespective of our deep and enduring contributions to its economy, its culture, and its precious Revolution. I've never avoided a good fight in my life. You know that. But now, after much reflection, I believe it is time to withdraw from white men. Our great energies, talents, and love would be better applied, I think, to the nurturing of a democracy on the continent of our origin. Visit Sierra Leone, if you dare. I have. And it gladdened my heart to see Negroes who possessed every freedom this republic withholds from us. I say, my friends, that it is doubtful the black man and the white can ever live in harmony. Can he ever relinquish his desire to be dominant? Can you ever forget the horrors of our history in this country at the hands of white men? No, methinks it is asking too much for both sides, theirs and ours, to live peacefully as one people. Does that sound defeatist? If so, you hear me wrong. In the impossibility of the Madisons and Jeffersons ever treating us like equals there lies the great opportunity for you and I, as freemen, to return to our mother country with skills and knowledge that will raise that continent, benighted by centuries of slavery and oppression, to its rightful place as a powerful black presence in the world. Leave America to the white man. A far greater and nobler civilization beckons, if we but have the courage to answer its call."
When Mr. Cuffe was done, the church was silent for a moment. Then, spontaneously, those in attendance responded with thunderous applause.
Other leaders of the colored community took the podium for the next few hours, all passionately arguing to their unlettered brethren the position of emigration. At various times the assembly became raucous, with members of the audience shouting their positions from the floor, so that Rev. Allen found it necessary to bang his gavel over and over, calling for order. "Please settle down," he said. "Everyone will have a chance to speak. Gentlemen, remember what we are deciding here. It has taken the American Colonial Society to bring this crisis to the surface. We are at, I daresay, a crossroads. Future generations will judge us by our sobriety. Our wisdom — or our lack of it! We are voting — be advised — not merely on the future position of the Philadelphia Negro vis-a-vis America, but on which direction all our people will take in the future. Now, if you'll look to the rear of the room, you'll see ushers are moving down the aisles, each carrying a basket filled with ballots. I ask you to take one. lake a prayerful moment to review the discussion you've heard, then vote knowing your decision carries as much weight for the direction of this nation as that of the white men who assembled at the Constitutional Convention."
Concluding his instructions, Rev. Allen went back to his seat to vote, Ten minutes later, the votes were collected. The ushers took them into the back of the church to tally "yeas" and "nays" for the Society's proposal. As they worked, Bethel's choir sang two beautiful hymns. Before they could begin a third, one of the ushers, a young man, brought a slip of paper to Rev. Allen, who again stepped up to the podium. Those gathered grew quiet. Rev. Allen cleared his throat.
"You, the people, have voted unanimously against the position of your leaders," he said. "You have rejected returning to Africa. Whatever our future is to be, you have decided that it will be here, on these shores. God help us all…"
Soulcatcher
IN THAT BOSTON MARKET on a Thursday in 1853, there were two men, one black, one white, who were as intimately bound, in a way, as brothers, or perhaps it was better to say they were caught in a macabre dance, one that stretched from rural South Carolina to Massachusetts over a period of three long months of hiding, disguises, last-minute escapes, name changes, and tracking leads that led nowhere until it brought them both here to the bustling open-air market perched near the waterfront on a summer afternoon.
They were weary, these two. Hunter and Hunted.
The Hunter paused just at the periphery of the market, breathing in the salt-laced air, looking at the numerous stands filled with freshly baked bread, a variety of vegetables, fish caught earlier that day, and handicrafts — wood carvings, colorful quilts, and hand-sewn leather garments-sold by black and white Bostonians alike. The Negroes, he noticed, including the one he was looking for, had set up their stands toward the rear of the market, separating themselves from the others. A gnarled, little merchant with a Scottish brogue, and wearing a yeoman's cap and burnoose, suddenly pulled at the sleeve of the Hunter's jacket. He pointed with his other hand at boots on the table beside him. Irritated, the Hunter shook loose his arm from the merchant's grasp, then moved on a few paces through the crowded market, tilting down his hat brim a bit to hide his face, and positioned himself to one side of a hanging display of rugs. From there he could see the Negro he wanted but was not himself in plain view. He reached into a pocket sewn inside his ragged, gypsy cloak, felt around his pistol — a Colt.31—and his fingers closed on a folded piece of paper. The Hunter withdrew it. He opened it slowly, as he'd done nearly a hundred times in the last three months in dozens of towns in North Carolina, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York, in daylight and dark, when the trail he was following went cold and he sat before a campfire, wondering how long it would be before he would collect his bounty. The paper had been folded and creased so often a few of the words on it were feathery. In the upper right-hand corner he saw the long-dried stain of dark blood — his brother Jeremiah's — and below it this notice: