Frederick Douglass asked the next question.
“Will you restrain the Confederate Union soldiers from harassing Negroes? Yesterday one of them said he needed a house servant and asked if he could buy me.” Douglass did not try to hide the snarl of outrage on his face.
“That shows his good taste,” Butler joked. “You are a most distinguished looking fellow. You’d be a fine complement to any household.”
The Democrats roared with laughter while Douglass almost choked with fury.
“I am not joking!” Douglass shouted.
“Calm down!” said Butler. “You’re still here, aren’t you? The Confederate was just fiddling with you. It can’t be the first time you’ve ever been heckled by a white man. Even in Boston not everybody is fond of Negroes. If anyone gives you trouble report it to the police as you did before. The police are still the enforcers of civil law in this city.”
Douglass wanted to respond by saying that many of Boston’s police didn’t like Negroes either and probably wouldn’t do much to prevent their being kidnapped by Confederates and sold back into slavery. But he realized that no good would come from pressing the point so he clenched his teeth and made no further response.
The next question was from a textile manufacturer. “What about trade? May we continue to service our customers in the territory controlled by the Free States government?”
“You may conduct whatever non-military trade you want to conduct with whoever you want to conduct it with. The Confederate Union government recognizes all Americans as citizens. We don’t restrict trade, other than in war material, with anybody. It’s only the so-called Free States Government that wants to restrict your trade with the Confederate Union.”
Another businessman spoke up. “May we continue to settle our business in Free State currency?”
“You may settle your business any way you please, so long as the buyer and seller agree on the terms. However, only specie and Confederate Union notes are legal tender. Confederate Union notes must be accepted by all sellers at par with gold.”
“What about resuming our foreign trade?” asked a merchant.
“After we reopen the customs posts you may resume trading with your foreign accounts, provided that you pledge not to carry products of military value. For some reason fathomable only to themselves, the British have decided to make the Canadas a free trade and transit zone for the Rebels. So we can’t allow trade that originates from here to carry products of military value through the Canadas to the Insurgents. We’ve handled the issue satisfactorily on trade originating out of New York and the Southern ports, so I see no great difficulty in resuming it here under those same terms and conditions.”
“What flag may we fly?” asked an elderly gentleman.
“The United States flag remains the legal flag of the country. The Confederate Union flag is a battle flag, not an official flag. You may fly either. The Rebel banner known as ‘the gold star flag’ is prohibited. You may not fly it or any variant of the flag that contains less than thirty-three stars. There are thirty-three states in the Confederate Union, including those pretending to be operating under another sovereignty.”
“Did I understand you to say that we are to have only one non-elected Congressman to represent all of New England?” asked a young man in the middle of the hall.
“New England is a military district until the Rebellion is concluded. It will be represented in the Confederate Congress as if it were a territory until civil government is restored to all the Rebel States.”
Douglass nudged Garrison. “I’ve heard enough,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”
They made their way out of Faneuil Hall and walked into a night warm and humid for this time of year, with a brisk wind out of the southeast blowing the salty smell of the sea air through town. There was a less pleasant smell in the air too, the smell of burned wood and powdered masonry from the ruins of the Statehouse and other nearby buildings demolished by the Confederate Navy’s guns. And there was the sickly smell of death indicating that not all of the dead bodies had been recovered from the rubble.
“What to do you think about Butler?” asked Garrison.
“He’s an arsehole.” Douglass glared as if the answer to that question was too obvious for words.
“I’m worried that his administration will be too moderate,” replied Garrison. “He’s not going to let the slave catchers back in here to stir up trouble. He’s going to let us print our papers without censorship. He’s going to let the merchants resume their trade. Those actions are well calculated to restore the people’s loyalty to the Confederate Union. I suppose it will induce many to declare neutrality as so many of New York’s Republicans have.”
“No Negro will declare neutrality!” hissed Douglass. “Don’t you remember that Confederate who joked about taking me for his servant just yesterday? One of these days they won’t be joking.”
“I’m sorry,” said Garrison, ashamed at his lapse, “but Butler made his best effort to charm us into forgetting that the Confederates are our enemies.”
“They’re all arseholes,” Douglass assured him. “And don’t you ever forget that.”
27
Charleston, South Carolina, October 23, 1861
“A Slave State Convention in Charleston?” asked Robert Barnwell Rhett as he read the letter that Bill Yancey had handed him in Rhett’s cluttered Charleston Mercury office. “What are you hoping to accomplish with that?”
“The first thing is to draft a resolution asking the President and Congress to make peace on the basis of Horace Greeley’s proposal,” Yancey replied. “We’ve got to stop Jefferson Davis’ war now before it ruins us!”
Rhett laughed good-naturedly. “Whatever the hell for, Bill? You wanted to teach the Yankee Abolitionists a lesson. Taking Boston away from them is a sockdolager!”
“That’s exactly the point. We taught the Abolitionists a lesson. Now we should let them go.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” said Rhett. “I’d have thought you’d want to kick them while they’re down.”
Yancey shook his head. “No, Bob, I’m not a vengeful man. At least I’m not anymore. I’m getting too old to have any more time for it.” Yancey felt a spike of pain shoot through his kidneys. He clenched his teeth, crossed his arms and leaned back on the sofa. The pain had become more frequent during the last couple of months. How much more of this can I bear? My days are getting short.
“Even if I wanted to kick them,” Yancey resumed after fighting back another spasm of pain, “it’s not going to happen with Davis in the White House. He’s put Ben Butler in charge of New England. Butler’s as much a Yankee as any of the rest of them. He’s allowing them to publish their abolitionist nonsense. He’s protecting their Negroes too. So what good does conquering New England do us if the Abolitionists are going to be allowed to harbor our runaway Niggers the same as they did before? Hell, they won’t even much mind coming back into the Confederate Union if it means they’ll get back to their devil’s work of agitating our Niggers against us! We need to be building a wall to keep those people out of our country not welcoming them back in here with open arms.”
Rhett got up from his office sofa and stepped over to window to breathe the fresh salt-scented air blowing in from the sea. Yancey stood up too and followed Rhett’s gaze over the harbor. Charleston swarmed with more activity than either would have imagined. The sleepy Southern port, declining in recent years, had picked up the bustling din of a Border State metropolis like Baltimore, Louisville, or St. Louis. It made Rhett think back to the stories he had heard as a child of how Charleston, in pre-Revolutionary days, had been one of the largest cities in the American Colonies, rivaling New York, Philadelphia, and Boston in commercial wealth.