Candle in the Darkness - Lynn N. Austin [41]
“I really wouldn’t know. As I’ve already told you, I don’t own any Negroes.”
“Say, you don’t have to get in a temper. I’ve visited down south, and I understand how much your economy depends on slave labor.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Tell you the truth, I’m on your side. I can’t stand the way all these uppity free Negroes strut around Philadelphia.”
I turned and walked away from him without even thanking 101 him for the dance.
“You must have read Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” my next partner said. “What do you make of it? Are things down south really as horrible as Miss Stowe portrays them?”
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t read the book.”
“Oh, you should, Miss Fletcher. It’s quite a vivid account. But then, you’ve probably seen firsthand some of the things she describes—husbands and wives sold to different owners, children separated from their mothers, slaves whipped . . .”
I wanted to weep. Everywhere I went, it seemed that people wanted to discuss slavery, yet they talked about it as if it was an abstract concept. It wasn’t abstract to me. Slaves were real-life people with individual faces and souls. I knew some of those faces, loved some of those souls, and it broke my heart to be reminded of the truth about them—that Josiah and Tessie weren’t allowed to be man and wife; that Grady had been torn without warning from his mother’s arms; that Eli could be whipped for secretly preaching about Jesus in the pine grove or killed for knowing how to read.
“It’s very warm in here,” I said. “Would you mind fetching me some punch?”
“I’d be happy to, Miss Fletcher. You wait right here, now. And don’t go wandering off with anyone else, all right?”
As soon as the gentleman disappeared into the crowd, heading for the punch bowl, I searched the sea of faces for Cousin Robert’s. When I spotted him talking to an older gentleman in a military uniform, I fled to Robert’s side like a drowning woman swimming for a lifeboat. I heard the end of his conversation, and thankfully it wasn’t about slavery.
“. . . I’m just afraid there won’t be any more battles left to fight by the time I get my officer’s commission—” Robert stopped when he saw me. “Caroline? What’s wrong? You’re quite pale.”
“Too much dancing, I guess. It’s made me feel a little dizzy.”
“Do you want to step outside for some air?”
“Yes, please.”
“Will you excuse us, sir?” he asked the uniformed gentleman. Robert offered him a flabby salute before taking my hand. His palm was clammy, as usual, but I didn’t care. I felt safe with him. He was always too busy talking about battles and wars to pester me with questions about slavery or the South.
“Are you having fun so far?” he asked after we’d stepped outside. Then, without waiting for a reply, he said, “I had the most interesting chat with Colonel Marshall. He fought in the Mexican War, you know, and he related several fascinating experiences. . . .” Robert talked on and on about the Mexican War for several minutes, but I wasn’t listening. When he finally asked if I was ready to go back inside, I had a desperate idea.
“Robert, I really don’t want to dance with anyone but you. Would it be terribly rude if we told everyone else to go away?”
His face registered surprise. For once in his life I think he was speechless. The balcony where we stood was quite dark, but I’m certain I saw his face flush with pleasure.
“Of course not, Caroline . . . d-dear. To tell you the truth, I really don’t want to share you with all the others.”
Robert was a terrible dancer. He held me awkwardly, and he kept treading on my toes, repeating, “Sorry . . . sorry.” I didn’t care. Each time another gentleman tried to cut in, Robert would proudly say, “Sorry, Miss Fletcher has promised all of her dances to me.”
I hid in Robert’s shadow for the remainder of the social season, knowing I would have to come up with a new strategy once he left for West Point. When that day finally arrived, Julia and I went with his parents to see his ship off at Penn’s Landing.
“Promise me you won’t marry someone