"No, sir. I'm quite sober, insofar as it appears we both will be out of a job by November. I'm referring to the Compromise in Congress, which you fully endorsed."
"What does that have to do with our Negroes being gone?"
Quietly, his secretary stepped from the Mayor's office to his own room, then returned after less than a minute with a copy of a newspaper from the day before. "Perhaps you should read this. Please read it carefully, sir. Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'd like to repair to my office in order to finish sending out copies of my résumé to potential, future employers. And I have a dreadful headache today…"
His secretary departed, leaving the Mayor more baffled than before. He opened the day-old newspaper, and there it was, the complex Compromise. In it, California became the thirty-first state. New Mexico and Utah were to be organized as territories and residents could decide for themselves whether to be free or slave. The slave trade was ended in D.C., and— Wait! He looked nearer, bringing the paper closer to his eyes in order to read some changes in the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793. Vaguely, he recalled this item, but hadn't attended closely to its details. Under the amendment, federal commissioners were granted the power to issue warrants for runaway slaves. They could form posses to capture fugitive blacks. They could fine citizens if they refused to help in returning Negroes to their former masters, who had to do nothing more than submit an affidavit in court. The blacks were denied a jury trial. They could not testify to defend themselves. Slowly, he put the newspaper down. His man Henry… their cook… their three other servants and perhaps all the coloreds in his city were runaways. No doubt theyd changed their names. And once they learned of the amendment to the Fugitive Slave Act, they'd fled en masse during the night, probably to Canada. Who could blame them? And he had endorsed this disaster?
Gloomily, the Mayor left City Hall. Night was coming on… and streetlamps were unlit. He plodded on, realizing that until now he'd not seen how dependent the life of the city — and his own fortune — was on blacks. They were interwoven, albeit invisibly, into the fabric of everything; and, like the dangling string on a sweater which, if pulled, unraveled the entire garment, so too their removal caused everything — high and low, private and personal — to collapse. Without sealing the deal on those contracts, he would lose his office. He was certain of that now. His own businesses would suffer. My God, he might even lose his mistress and be left with only his Wife, who sometimes could be a shrew! Miserably, he tramped back home in the snow, which seeped into his shoes and dampened his feet so thoroughly he felt his toes had frozen in one solid block of flesh by the time he reached his front door, coughing, his nose burning and running badly, because — yes — he'd picked up a nasty cold.
The house was colder and darker than before. If anything, he only wanted a little sympathy now from his Wife. He did not see her downstairs. So, blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he climbed the steep stairs to their bedroom, dripping all the way. "Dear," he said, opening the door, "I have some bad news…"
"Well," she crabbed, "you can save whatever it is until you find dinner for us. I haven't eaten all day. I'm starving! And so are the children!"
It dawned on him that she had not left their bed all day. "You couldn't find something for yourself in the kitchen?"
"Nothing's prepared! I haven't had to cook in years! You know that. I want you to go out right now and find us something to eat."
"Now?"
"Yes, now."
Slump-shouldered, feeling euchered, the Mayor went back outside, walking two miles in the darkness, with fresh snow beginning to fall, flaking on his shoulders. An hour later he arrived at the building that housed his club, thinking perhaps there they would wrap four plates of food, which he could carry home to his family. He tried the door. It was locked. Inside no lights were on whatsoever. Then he saw a sign in the ground-floor window. NO WAITERS OR COOKS TODAY. He stared blankly, helplessly, at the words. His mouth wobbled. Of course, he thought, Of course…
And then Hizzoner broke down and wept in the snow.
Murderous Thoughts
"ALL RIGHT, YOU CAN interview me if you wish, but there's really not much to say. I think that white bier you see swinging over the street, just above our heads, with the legend THE FUNERAL OF LIBERTY says it all. Or over there — do you see it? — the union flag hanging upside down? Or there, on those shopkeepers' windows? They're draped in black because today we have collectively committed suicide in Boston. That's why you've got twenty thousand people out here today. We are dead. We are mourning ourselves as much as we are the decision that went against Anthony Burns. By returning that colored man to his master we have thoroughly undone the Revolution. We are not who we say we are. There's nothing left, I'm telling you, but lies and hypocrisy. And so I feel ashamed to wear this uniform. What's that? Yes, I resigned this morning as captain of the watch. Until this trial — this mockery of justice — came along, I was damned proud to be a Marine. My grandfather was with General Washington at Valley Forge. I grew up hearing stories every night at the dinner table about how the Tree of Liberty is watered with the blood of patriots. That's Jefferson, in case you didn't know, and from the time I was a boy I have believed that sentiment, sir, with all my heart and soul. I cut my teeth on the words of Thomas Paine. On his belief that our Revolution, our freedom, was worth protecting with my life, if need be. I was a soldier. My daily bread was duty and obedience to the nation I served. So yes, I suppose it seems odd that I disobeyed a direct order from my commanding officer to escort Burns from his jail in the courthouse in order for this contingent of men to march him back into bondage. But it's not odd, I'm saying. You can quote me on that. My refusal to be a party to the enslavement of another human being is of a piece with my grandfather's resistance to British oppression during the war. There's the rub! D'you see what we've become? By holding the Negroes in slavery we are the very enemy we fought in 1776. As a patriot to the principle, if not this wretched Government that intensified the Fugitive Slave Act four years ago, I have chosen to leave the military that has been my life. Now tell me again, what newspaper did you say you represent?"
"Disappointed? Why yes, I suppose you can say that. I've been here in Boston for the last month on business. What is my business? Tobacco. My home is Charleston, and what that means is that I know a great deal more about Negroes and their needs than do you northerners. I've watched this trial, you know, for the last nine days. By my calculations, the cost of returning this runaway to his owner is a riot, the life of one U.S. marshal, and $50,000, which must be taken from the public treasury. No doubt the North will find a new way to tax the South to pay for the expenses. From my hotel window I saw the abolitionists when they stormed the southwest door of the courthouse, determined to break out this nigra Burns and set him free. I was watching too when it was over and the body of that marshal's deputy was brought outside. What I wish to know is why no one has called that criminal action by its proper name: treason. It is blatantly against recent legislation, and the Constitution, to harbor or abet a fugitive nigra. He is property, first and foremost. If you were in that courthouse on the last day of the trial, as I was, you would have seen the recognition in Burns's eyes when his master appeared — it was the look of a craven, guilty animal cornered at last. But was anyone here, in this city, at all pleased that the rightful goods of an honest man were restored? That today the law is being enforced? Hardly. And that is why I am illy pleased. Nay, disgusted. If this tenuous union is to prevail, which I doubt increasingly every day I am in Boston, then you Yankees must honor the customs and way of life in the southern states. You must — I put it to you, sir — stop this rape of our rights. Oh, you don't agree with me? Then consider these facts: since declaring independence, the United States has acquired 2,373,046 square miles of territory from which it has excluded the South. But it is the slavery question that stings us most. On this the North has been irrational. You — and your agitators for Negro manumission who now control the Government — force the South to choose between abolition or secession. We have no say in this Government. None a'tall! As John C. Calhoun put it, what was once a constitutional federal republic has been subverted and transformed into one that is as absolutist as that of the Autocrat of Russia. Can you see the South's position? My position? I do not want my businesses destroyed. My liberties rescinded. Or to see an inferior race released upon the South to wreak havoc with all that is genteel, civilized, and sanctioned by the Almighty. But that is what is happening day after day, and it will result — mark my words — in the dissolution of the union. No, if you knew the Negro better, you would not have such a long face today. But enough! This insufferable Government will be the ruin of us all…"