THE MAKING OF HENRY AND ANGELA

This story is based on truth. The names have been slightly altered. The details of their lives are more or less accurate. I have a family connection to them. They were both remarkable people.

My name is Henry and I have a brother called James. We were well known in the street as the boys who you didn’t mess around with. When our baby brother turned up, we were always there to protect him and each other. No self-respecting fellow would dare to come up against us. We were a gang of three sturdy ruffians. We had proved ourselves in many a fight, because despite cuts and bruises we always won, but there was a war going on around us which was overwhelming our little family. It had been going on for generations, and all the cards were stacked up against those of us who longed for freedom.

Before I continue, I want to talk about the physical and moral strength of our mother. She must have inherited it from way back in previous generations, which included those of an Indian tribe with their proud traditions and customs. Although she had a withered right arm, the other one had the power to strike if need be. When she looked at a potential adversary, despite the disadvantages of her position, she possessed a dignity and grace which gave her the steely determination to fight her corner in whatever ways she thought right, always waiting patiently for better times. The lioness defended her offspring.

From our mother, we heard about our strange story as to how we landed up in this small house, located in the poorer part of the city, struggling to make ends meet. She took in washing and we helped her. We had no choice, otherwise we would all have starved. We went from house to house, collecting the dirty items in a bag, and then within twenty-four hours we would be back to take them - washed and ironed - in order to receive a pittance in payment.

My mother was not exactly the owner of the house, but she did not have to pay rent or at least so far she had not had to do so. She told me and my brother about the past at an age when we could understand such things. She explained why for instance there was no man in the house. We were in a situation of being neither enslaved (as least not yet!) nor free.

Once she had related the story of our births and our first few years of life, it took some while for the information to sink into our minds. First of all, our father had been a white man, who had been master on a plantation, where she was the children’s nurse. It seemed not to have been a coercive relationship nor to have taken place in an adulterous fashion, since his own young wife died before they recognized an attraction between them - an attraction, which they both knew crossed into illegal territory, and yet the man never wavered in his support of the system, into which he had been born and educated.

He had several children by his young deceased wife and our mother had been their nurse. When the master and the latter realized that their relationship was blossoming, he decided that in order to prevent prying eyes and itching ears from starting a campaign of destructive gossip he would purchase a property some distance from the city where he owned a law practice, which he had inherited from his father. He had never enjoyed any of the litigation. He much preferred being a farmer or rather a landowner.

So he and our mother had escaped upcountry with the pony and trap, loaded up with all the possessions they could muster. Once they arrived, the master arranged for an adjoining building to be erected for the use of our mother, and he would live in the main residence. After a while, first I was born and then my brother after a gap of just under two years.

Neither I nor my brother remember very much of this time. We relied on what our mother told us later. She said that the master had a particular fondness for us two boys, calling us Harry and Jamie. We used to play games around the property. We had no idea that the situation in which we found ourselves was one in which most people would have expressed harsh criticism at the shame that the master had brought on his own family. We were living an artificial existence, which, as it happened, lasted but a few years until our father succumbed to one of the typhoid epidemics, which plagued the district, being situated so close to the mosquito-infested estuary. He was only fifty years of age. However, in his last testament he willed us all into the care of his eldest son by his young wife, who had predeceased him. The man had no idea that his son, whom we shall call Rutledge, would carry out his wishes to the letter, but not in a way that he perhaps might have wanted.

Before twenty-four hours had elapsed from his death, the master’s family took charge of the situation - in particular, his sister, Maria Louisa. She was the driving force behind the sale of both the plantation and all its contents, and also the destiny of our little family. Out of the proceeds of the sale, the house which has now become our home was bought, and that was the sum total of the financial assistance, given to us by them.

After having been the mistress of the plantation for a few years, my mother was now left destitute and, as it so happened, pregnant with her third child. As I have explained, we did the best we could. As it turned out, my mother was delivered of a son, whom she called Thomas or Tom for short. So there we were, the four of us, relying on our own resources and skills for own survival.

Now I want to tell you of the worst day of my life. I can give you the exact date. Until then my brother and I had been sent to one of the illegal night schools for our education. Our mother was determined that we should somehow escape the poverty in which she had been placed, and for her this was the only means open to her children to improve themselves. It was a very wise move on her part, because my brother, James, and myself benefited from those weary nights and progressed well until that fateful day, when I was taken.

The twelfth day of March in the year 1860 will be etched on my memory as the beginning of a nightmare. It was early morning and there was a rap at the front-door, which our mother opened, wondering who it could be at this hour. At first she smiled, because she recognized straight away the commanding figure of Rutledge, who was once that little boy she had nursed.

However, it was almost immediately made clear to her that he was on business here, and it was a disagreeable one at that. The shock on her face was so complete, that she could not utter a word at his vile demand. She understood that she could do nothing to prevent the enslavement of me, her eldest son, in the household of my half-brother. This was how he now interpreted his father’s wishes.

Reader, you can imagine how I reacted when my mother told me that I was to report to Rutledge’s home on the other side of the thoroughfare where the rich folks lived. I was to become a house-servant (or more accurately, house-slave). Having been used to being free until that time, I could not contain my rage and told my mother that I would rather die than be sent there. She informed me that I had no choice. If I tried to escape, then I could easily be arrested by the police and sent to the Salt Detention Centre, and we all knew about the horror stories which had seeped out from that loathsome place. Despite my abject protestations, I knew that I had to obey the summons to Rutledge’s mansion. We had passed it often enough, so I was well aware of how to get there.

When I did arrive and was taken of course to the back entrance, which was used by those in service, I was immediately grabbed by the arm by a tall sour-faced lady, wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “You, come with me, boy.” Those were her first words. I was taken into a room full of uniforms. There she instructed me to take off my rags. I stood there in my nakedness before her, feeling helpless rage build up within me. She then proceeded to dress me in this tight-fitting uniform, complete with the waistcoat, breeches and buckled shoes. My feet were unused to being covered up. I knew that I did not have to have a mirror for me to realize I looked ridiculous.

In the next days, and months, it was a case of them trying to break me in like a young colt, and me fighting them every inch of the way. Despite the fact that I was whipped often for the slightest demeanour, I never gave up the struggle, but gradually I realized I had to choose my battles, in order to have a realistic chance of winning even small victories, especially when they were not aware of my triumph, thinking that they were making me into a model-servant.

In a couple of occasions, I had been particularly rebellious, and threatened with being sent to the Salt as it was known. I could not think of a worst nightmare, but when I did eventually arrive and experience the cruelties, I was ready to withstand them and remain determined never to surrender. I would always remember this.

It was not long before my unfortunate brother, James, joined me in our servitude. He reacted in exactly the same way as I had done and always would do. Inevitably the same treatment  was meted out to him as it had been to me. Even Rutledge’s wife made her contribution in the punishment schedule. She was in my estimation a she-devil without any compassion or human kindness whatsoever. She could have been the twin of our aunt, Maria Louisa, who was equally vicious in her cruelty.  

I will never forget one extremely painful and distressing incident, when my mother had to suffer because of my misfortune. One morning on my way to Rutledge’s place, I trod on some broken glass and slashed my bare foot. I immediately returned home in order for my mother to bandage me up and help me recuperate from my wound. The next day, there was the familiar rap on the front-door and when my mother opened it, Rutledge immediately demanded that she send me forthwith back to his house.  This time she did not act the way she was expected to behave. She reminded Rutledge that I was his half-brother and he had no right to treat me in this way. He flew into a rage and told her that he would send her to the Salt Detention Centre. She coldly informed him that if he was foolish enough to do so, then as a mark of her resistance she would take no food there whatsoever. He dismissed her.

Not long after he left, two members of the militia arrived to take her to the Salt. Rutledge had indeed been true to his word. So as it turned out, my mother was also true to her word. For a week, while I struggled with my work at the mansion, hobbling about, she starved herself. After a week, on the advice of his friends, who warned him of the scandal if she were to die there, my half-brother had his mother suddenly released without warning. She had won a victory. I was proud of her, as I always had been and always would be.

During the next few years, our situation began to both deteriorate and improve at the same time. I know that seems contradictory, but it is the truth. War clouds were drawing ever closer to the city. At first, it had hardly any impact upon our fragile existence. We did hear the firing of cannon, aimed at the fortress out in the bay, as well as the celebrations, when the defenders surrendered to the army.

As I walked to and from Rutledge’s place, I began to see the mood of the people changing. Fear had replaced the triumphalism of the start of the war, when all the bravado for the justice of their cause was all too apparent. Cannon from outlying islands, now occupied by the enemy, unleashed their fire down on the peninsula, and the population were forced to evacuate the lower regions and seek shelter further away. The smell of panic was mixed in with that of cordite.

I decided to take advantage of the situation, not telling even my mother or brothers of my intention. One morning, instead of walking obediently into yet another day of servitude, I turned round and back down the street, making a right into Card Street, where I knew my cousins lived. They had been free for two or three generations and well respected in the neighbourhood. They were also very much aware of our situation.

I knocked on the door. The father saw me and having looked up and down the street, immediately told me to quickly get into the house without delay. The area in which they lived was not too affected by the shelling for the time being. I was welcomed by the rest of the family, given something to eat and then sent upstairs into an attic room, which was hidden by a large wardrobe in a storeroom on a lower floor. Thus I was concealed here for about two years until the surrender of the city to the Northern troops. During the time I was in the house, I was well looked after. It was agreed that if I did have to go out, that I would so at night-time, even when there was a curfew, and I would be disguised as a woman. If I had to suddenly be recalled to the house, the password would be “Morgan”, because everyone knew that was the name of a general who never failed to retreat at the sight of the enemy.

So I was more fortunate than my brother. Firstly, after my escape, he was left at the mercy of Rutledge, whose rage at losing one of his slaves plummeted new depths of intensity and who looked for any excuse to punish the brother even more excessively to make up for the deficiency. Eventually the treatment became so unbearable for James without the support of his brother, that he decided to take his chances and leave the comfort of home, saying nothing to his mother, while he just closed the front-door behind him and wandered off in search of shelter and food.

As the situation in the city deteriorated, no-one took much notice of appeared to be a half-starved foundling, lying in straw in a derelict warehouse, where he had been for the past few weeks, scrounging for whatever scraps could be foraged on the dishevelled streets. His health, which had been severely affected by his servitude, became increasingly precarious, almost to the point, where if the army officer hadn’t spotted him, he would probably have been yet another casualty of war and thrown into one of the common graves. He was lucky, because the officer assumed he was not a slave. So he hired him as his boy-assistant without a specific job description. The kind gentleman looked after him, bringing him back to health. The two returned to the officer’s station at one of the outlying fortifications a few miles distant from the city.

James received a small amount of pay for cleaning the officer’s boots and washing and ironing his uniform as well as making his quarters spick and span. The former was happy with his lot. However, one day after feeling homesick and missing his mother, he made the mistake of going back into the city. He discovered that Rutledge had posted wanted notices about a runaway slave, and it was clear that James was the culprit. It did not take long for him to be caught by the city militia and sent back to his master.

By this time Rutledge had had his fill of this recalcitrant boy, and sold him to another army officer, who kept James as his slave until the cessation of hostilities, when chaos reigned in the city. Freedom came with the ringing of church bells and parades of victorious troops, marching up and down the streets. For many this seemed like a dream They could not believe it. Others cowered behind net-curtains, enraged and frightened at the thought that their beloved city had been taken over by a mob, intent on mayhem and murder.

It wasn’t long before our little family was reunited after the long years of living under the tyrannical sway of slavery. We were now free. Surprisingly I harboured no vengeful thoughts towards my half-brother. James like myself decided that for us he was now a complete irrelevance to our lives.

In the aftermath of the the surrender many schools were opened to accommodate all those who had been denied an education, because of their status as property. My brother and I were enrolled in a new school, for which a new principal had just been appointed. A remarkably forward-thinking woman she turned out to be and she was ambitious for all her students. She also happened to be the wife of the new mayor, imposed on the city by the occupiers in the person of the commandant. It was not long before the principal saw the potential in both my brother and myself. Our other brother did follow us but he eventually declined to continue on the path we chose, finally returning back home to our mother.

With her permission, we were sent north for the continuation of our education at one of the prodigious Northern universities. At first we found it overwhelming being in such scholastic surroundings, but those of us from the South were given lessons in acclimatisation in all areas of both studies and social skills. We realized we had a lot to learn. Fortunately since no pressure was put on us to finish this introductory period of adjustment, we soon developed and found our feet on solid ground and prospered.

We found the interaction with our fellow students to be exhilarating and stimulating. We began to discuss issues - particularly those concerning philosophy, politics, and religion. We became participants in the struggle for equal rights, at first in an unofficial capacity, but as we increased our knowledge, we drew close to those in the public eye who were in the thick of the battle and joined them and fought alongside them, arguing for and against the issues which fueled the cause. It was at our first place of learning that we realized we would progress along separate paths as far as our professional careers were concerned.

I went on one of the top law schools of the country and finally became the second former slave to graduate from that illustrious institution. I was sad that my mother had been unable to witness the ceremony when I was handed my degree, proudly wearing the gown and carrying my mortar board. My brother in contrast enrolled in a theological seminary in order to fulfill his calling into the ministry.

It was ironic that he should choose this path, because at first I was the one trying to convince him to believe in God, and he was the sceptic. The roles I hasten to add were not reversed. It was just that my inclination and temperament veered more towards the legal profession.

My brother eventually was appointed the minister at a Presbyterian Church in Washington DC and has stayed there ever since. I know he loves the people there and they love him. I don’t see why he shouldn’t go on being their minister for the rest of his life.

I on the other hand have my own home and legal practice in the city of Boston. I was very fortunate to be taken on by a firm of lawyers so soon after I graduated.

However, I now have just returned after spending four years as the American Ambassador to Haiti. My name was put forward to President Halsey and on the advice of those “in the know” he appointed me. Unfortunately when he left office, his successor was not enamoured that a former slave had taken such a prodigious position and I was immediately recalled to then resume my practice in Boston.

I have had mixed fortune over the last ten years. Shortly after my arrival back home, I found out that my estranged wife had taken her own life in a city on the West Coast, where she had  lived for some time, cut off from her family. When we were first contemplating getting married over eighteen years previously, her father, who, as a minister of religion, considered himself liberal in his thinking, wrote her an anguished letter, saying he would rather die than allow us to go ahead with our plans. The prospect of an interracial marriage was for him too much to bear.

We did not alter our decision. However, cracks began to appear in our marriage almost straight away. Especially after the birth of our only daughter, Angela. Tensions rose in the household to such a pitch that when my darling little one was only two years old, my wife stormed out of the house, carrying the baby, and took a train all the way back to where her parents lived. I did not hear from her for eighteen months, when she announced by letter that she was going to put her daughter on a train back to me, because she was tired of motherhood and wanted to start a career.

Ironically during this time of conflict between us her father and I became reconciled and he did attempt to find a resolution, but his daughter was adamant. She left her family home and travelled west where she stayed until her death only a few months ago. We had become strangers to each other.

Since her return home my dear Angela has been my constant companion, except when I had to be overseas as the representative of my own country. We have become close, and I have felt privileged to see her grow and blossom into a fine young lady. I wish she would find a handsome fellow who could court her and ask her to be his wife, but she seems not to be interested. In fact I get the distinct impression that she is aghast at the thought. I am also worried about her friendships with some other women. She is very secretive about her social circle. Perhaps she thinks her father is of an older generation who would not understand the tensions of young people nowadays.

I’m told by others who know her well, that she has written poetry, but she has not revealed a single line to me. However, I was mightily impressed with her play, which was staged only recently. She had clearly been listening to my speeches about the fight for equal justice in an oppressive society. Along with colleagues and friends of ours, and of course my own brother and his wife, we attended the opening night, which was received at the end with several curtain calls, lasting a good few minutes. That night I was a very proud father.

Three years ago I lost the anchor of my life - my inspiration, my lantern into the future. She who gave me birth and nurtured me and protected me as best she could. Even up to the end her indomitable spirit never left her, though she was confined to her rocking chair, which had been specially brought up from the Southern city, where she had seen so much suffering and hardship. She displayed such grace and dignity at all times. She looked as though she could have been related to royalty. She was certainly my queen. I am convinced that all three brothers felt the same way about her. James and I were sorrowful that our younger brother was not able to attend her funeral. We offered to send him the railroad tickets, but perhaps out of a sense of pride, he declined them.

My brother had exchanged somewhat unsatisfactory letters with the latter - unsatisfactory, because clearly he had had problems but James had put on his moralizing hat rather than shown any understanding or compassion. The unfortunate brother had freely accepted he deserved the advice given but admitted he couldn’t change his ways, and he bitterly regretted not being able to say goodbye to his dear departed mother, whom he adored so much and even worshipped.

I now sit here in my own front parlour on my favourite armchair. I am in the middle of reading the latest law journal, outlining interesting and historic cases. I look up and smile, as I see my only and beloved daughter, curled up on the sofa, asleep with a book she has been reading, open across her lap. I am at peace with myself and my little family. Together we can face the world and fight the battles which need to be won for the cause of freedom and justice.

FORTY-FIVE YEARS LATER

My name is Angela and I am the only daughter of Henry Grimes, my beloved father, whom I miss very much, even though he has been dead almost twenty years. When my mother decided no longer to be a part of our lives, we were very much drawn closer to each other, and of course to my uncle and aunt. I only saw my grandmother on one or two occasions when she moved up to live with them. I could see straight away that she was a truly remarkable woman, who commanded respect and devotion from everyone. During her lifetime she was indeed the matriarch of our family at a time when men controlled the destiny of nations and also their families. She was clever in choosing the battles she knew could be won and keeping her powder dry for those she knew she would have to wait for another day in order to overcome the obstacles she faced. She instilled the same spirit in both my father and my uncle James, and they were a formidable pair of campaigners. who were not afraid to speak their mind in the cause of freedom in which they passionately believed.

My father and I remained very close right up to his death. You can appreciate that when he was gone, I felt as though my life was diminished by his passing. I found it hard to function as a human being. Soon afterwards I bid farewell to my uncle, with whom I was living, explaining to him that I had to move on and make my own life.

I chose to set up home in the New York district of Harlem, where I knew a group of artists, musicians and writers were beginning to make their mark in the cultural life of the city, and I desperately wanted to be a part of that as well as the struggle for equal rights which I had inherited from my father and uncle.

My father knew that I wrote poetry, but because of the deeply personal nature of its content I could never show any of my poems to him. I hid from him a secret which I revealed to no-one. I was only too aware of the law of the land, which condemned my love for another human being, because that person happened to be a woman.

I poured out my passionate feelings to her, and she reciprocated. It was a clandestine correspondence which we conducted. Not even our closest friends or collaborators had any inkling of this relationship which never faltered, despite the risks we were taking.

From the beginning we had decided that it would be too dangerous to contemplate living together. Tongues would certainly start to wag, and information would soon leak out for the authorities to investigate. We knew of some who had unfortunately not been as cautious as ourselves, and had suffered unspeakable agonies in prison as a result. I will call my beloved by the name of Margot. We first met as students at university, and the spark was lit almost immediately. We were smitten with each other. We couldn’t keep our eyes off each other, or rather we made great efforts to avoid doing so. It is a wonder no-one noticed. I suspect some did, but because of their friendship with us they chose to ignore the signs and continue to treat us as they had always done.

We did not experience any bullying at university, although we did hear some derogatory comments made as general observations and thus not directed at either of us. We understood perfectly that we had made the right decision to keep silent about our true feelings for each other.

It was only on a few rare occasions when we were alone together - in a dark corner or cupboard - that we could show our love for each other in ways that only lovers can - intimately. We embraced and kissed. We could do no more.

Afterwards we had to live as though such occurrences had never happened. We were existing on a powder-keg, which we were determined must never explode in our faces. The only outlet for our volcanic emotions was channelled into the poetry we wrote, each dedicating to the other the precious words on the page. We made a solemn pact that nothing would be published in our lifetime. We would leave the manuscripts hidden away, but not so as never to be discovered.

We thought that an instruction in our wills could be inserted to enable those who wanted to search to succeed in their quest. We would couch the instruction in such a way as to alert only those who were sympathetic to the arts and therefore would be in a position to determine the value of the find, and perhaps consider the publication of our work. Only time would tell if the general reading public would ever have a chance to judge whether the decision to publish was correct.

I am so grateful to my father for giving me the opportunity to be engaged in my studies at so many prodigious educational establishments and to be trained as a schoolteacher, who could impart to her pupils what she had learned in the school of life, both directly and indirectly from her own father. He has also enabled me to become the person I am today, despite the fact that he would be unhappy with my choices, as he saw them. He would not understand that I had no choice in how I became as a woman, who loved women - and in particular, one special lady who will always be my companion in life. I never revealed my secret life to him. I do not regret that. I chose not to do so, because I loved him and cared for him deeply as my stronghold and provider in the times of both hardship and plenty. I will always remember him.