on the opposite side of the
Liberty Bell
from the Confederate steamboat was the USS
Shiloh
, one of a number of river monitors that made St. Louis their home port. The gunboat’s dark iron armor plating and starkly functional design made a sharp contrast to the
N.B. Forrest’s
gaudy paint and gilding and gloriously rococo woodwork.
Among the crowd waiting at the top of the gently sloping levee for the
Liberty Bell
to disembark her passengers was a small knot of black men in clothes much like Douglass’: undoubtedly the clergymen he was to meet. He hurried back to his cabin to retrieve his carpetbags. He carried them to the gangplank himself. Though porters—immigrants from Eastern Europe, many ofthem—were eager enough to assist the whites traveling with him, they were more often than not reluctant to serve a Negro.
How quickly they learn the ways of the land to which they came seeking freedom
, Douglass thought with a bitterness now dull with scar tissue but no less true and real on account of that.
The ministers, by contrast, were eager to relieve him of his burdens. “Thank you, Deacon Younger,” he said as he shook hands with them. “Thank you, Mr. Towler. Good to see you gentlemen—and you, too, of course, Mr. Bass; I don’t mean to forget you—again. It’s been four or five years since I last had the pleasure, has it not?”
“Fo’ years, Mistuh Douglass,” Deacon Daniel Younger answered. “It sho’ enough is a pleasure to set eyes on you again, suh, I tell you truthfully.” Like his colleagues, Younger was a man of education. He wrote well, as Douglass knew. His grammar and vocabulary were first rate. But he, like Towler and Bass, retained most of the intonations of slavery in his speech.
Douglass’ own Negro accent was much less pronounced; as a boy, he’d learned white ways of speaking from his master’s daughter. Over the years, he had seen many times how that made people both white and black take him more seriously. He found it useful and unfortunate at the same time.
“Come on to the carriage wid us,” Washington Towler said. “We’ll take you over to the Planter’s Hotel on Fo’th Street. They know you’re a-comin’, and they will be ready fo’ you.” By that, he meant the hotel wouldn’t make a fuss about having a Negro use one of its rooms for a few days. Douglass, of course, was not just any Negro, either, but as close to a famous Negro as the United States boasted.
The Reverend Henry Bass drove the buggy. He was younger than his two colleagues, both of whom were not far from Douglass’ age. He said, “Don’t know what all the excitement of the past few weeks will do to your crowds, Mistuh Douglass. What has yo’ experience been in the other towns where you were?”
“It would be hard to state a general rule,” Douglass answered. “Some people—by which I mean white people, of course—”
“Oh, of course,” Bass said. He and the other two ministers rolled their eyes at the never-ending indignities of living on sufferance.
“Some people, I say,” Douglass resumed, “take the threat of renewed war as a chance to punish the Confederate States, which works to our advantage. Others, though, continue to make theNegro the scapegoat for the dissolution of the Union, and because of that discount every word I say.”
“You will see a deal o’ dat last here, I am afraid.” Deacon Daniel Younger’s broad shoulders—the man was built like a barrel—moved up and down as he sighed. “During the war, there were plenty who fought”—he pronounced it
fit
, as did many, black and white, in the West and in the CSA—”to make Missouri a Confederate state. They have made up their minds to be part o’ de Union now, but they are still not easy about it.”
“I remember how Kentucky fell after Lincoln pulled troops east—too little, too late—to try to halt Lee’s army,” Douglass said. “I remember the talk about partitioning Missouri, too, on the order of what
Liberty Bell
from the Confederate steamboat was the USS
Shiloh
, one of a number of river monitors that made St. Louis their home port. The gunboat’s dark iron armor plating and starkly functional design made a sharp contrast to the
N.B. Forrest’s
gaudy paint and gilding and gloriously rococo woodwork.
Among the crowd waiting at the top of the gently sloping levee for the
Liberty Bell
to disembark her passengers was a small knot of black men in clothes much like Douglass’: undoubtedly the clergymen he was to meet. He hurried back to his cabin to retrieve his carpetbags. He carried them to the gangplank himself. Though porters—immigrants from Eastern Europe, many ofthem—were eager enough to assist the whites traveling with him, they were more often than not reluctant to serve a Negro.
How quickly they learn the ways of the land to which they came seeking freedom
, Douglass thought with a bitterness now dull with scar tissue but no less true and real on account of that.
The ministers, by contrast, were eager to relieve him of his burdens. “Thank you, Deacon Younger,” he said as he shook hands with them. “Thank you, Mr. Towler. Good to see you gentlemen—and you, too, of course, Mr. Bass; I don’t mean to forget you—again. It’s been four or five years since I last had the pleasure, has it not?”
“Fo’ years, Mistuh Douglass,” Deacon Daniel Younger answered. “It sho’ enough is a pleasure to set eyes on you again, suh, I tell you truthfully.” Like his colleagues, Younger was a man of education. He wrote well, as Douglass knew. His grammar and vocabulary were first rate. But he, like Towler and Bass, retained most of the intonations of slavery in his speech.
Douglass’ own Negro accent was much less pronounced; as a boy, he’d learned white ways of speaking from his master’s daughter. Over the years, he had seen many times how that made people both white and black take him more seriously. He found it useful and unfortunate at the same time.
“Come on to the carriage wid us,” Washington Towler said. “We’ll take you over to the Planter’s Hotel on Fo’th Street. They know you’re a-comin’, and they will be ready fo’ you.” By that, he meant the hotel wouldn’t make a fuss about having a Negro use one of its rooms for a few days. Douglass, of course, was not just any Negro, either, but as close to a famous Negro as the United States boasted.
The Reverend Henry Bass drove the buggy. He was younger than his two colleagues, both of whom were not far from Douglass’ age. He said, “Don’t know what all the excitement of the past few weeks will do to your crowds, Mistuh Douglass. What has yo’ experience been in the other towns where you were?”
“It would be hard to state a general rule,” Douglass answered. “Some people—by which I mean white people, of course—”
“Oh, of course,” Bass said. He and the other two ministers rolled their eyes at the never-ending indignities of living on sufferance.
“Some people, I say,” Douglass resumed, “take the threat of renewed war as a chance to punish the Confederate States, which works to our advantage. Others, though, continue to make theNegro the scapegoat for the dissolution of the Union, and because of that discount every word I say.”
“You will see a deal o’ dat last here, I am afraid.” Deacon Daniel Younger’s broad shoulders—the man was built like a barrel—moved up and down as he sighed. “During the war, there were plenty who fought”—he pronounced it
fit
, as did many, black and white, in the West and in the CSA—”to make Missouri a Confederate state. They have made up their minds to be part o’ de Union now, but they are still not easy about it.”
“I remember how Kentucky fell after Lincoln pulled troops east—too little, too late—to try to halt Lee’s army,” Douglass said. “I remember the talk about partitioning Missouri, too, on the order of what
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