Sarah
I arrived in Charleston wearing my best Quaker frock, a plain gray dress
with a flat white collar and matching bonnet, the picture of humility. Before
leaving Philadelphia, I’d been officially accepted into the Quaker fold. My
probation had ended. I was one of them.
Upon seeing me for the first time in over a year, Mother received my
kiss on her cheek and said, “I see you’ve returned as a Quaker. Really,
Sarah, how can you show your face in Charleston dressed like that?”
I didn’t like the garb either, but it was at least made from wool, free of
slave labor. We Quakers boycotted Southern cotton. We Quakers—how
strange that sounded to me.
I tried to smile and make light of Mother’s comment, not yet grasping
the full reason for it. “. . . Is that my welcome home, then? Surely you’ve
missed me.”
She was sitting in the same spot where I’d last seen her, in the fading
gold brocade wingchair by the window, and wearing the same black dress,
holding her infernal gold-tip cane across her lap. It was as if she’d been
sitting there since I left. Everything about her seemed unchanged, except
she appeared more dilapidated around the edges. The skin of her neck
folded turtle-like onto her collar and the hair at her forehead was fraying
like an edge of cloth.
“I’ve missed you, dear, of course. The entire household suffered
because of your desertion, but you can’t go about dressed like that—you
would be taken at once for a Quaker, and their anti-slavery views are well
known here.”
I hadn’t thought of this. I ran my palms down the sides of my skirt,
feeling suddenly fond of my drab outfit.
A voice came from the doorway. “If that’s what this hideous dress of
yours means, I’ll have to get one myself.”
Nina. She looked like a whole new creature. She was taller, standing
inches above me with her sable hair swept back, her cheeks higher, her
brows thick and her eyes black. My sister had become a darkly beautiful
woman.
She threw her arms around me. “You are never to leave again.”
As we clung to each other, Mother muttered, as if to herself, “For once,
the child and I agree on something.”
Nina and I laughed, and then astonishingly, Mother laughed, and the
sound the three of us made together in the room created a silly joy inside of
me.
“. . . Look at you,” I said, cupping Nina’s face in my hands.
Mother’s eyes flitted from my collar to my hem and back. “I’m quite
serious about the dress, Sarah. One of the Quaker families here had their
home pelted with eggs. It was reported yesterday in the Mercury. Tell her,
Nina. Explain to your sister that Charlestonians are in no mood to see her
parading around like this.”
Nina sighed. “There are rumors in the city of a slave revolt.”
“. . . A revolt?”
“It’s nothing but twaddle,” Mother said, “but people are overwrought
about it.”
“If you believe the stories,” Nina said, “the slaves are going to converge
on the streets, kill the entire white population, and burn the city.”
The skin on my arms prickled.
“After the killing and burning, supposedly they will plunder the state
bank and then raid the horses in the city stable or else board ships in the
harbor and sail off to Haiti.”
A small scoff escaped Mother’s throat. “Can you imagine them devising
such an elaborate plan?”
I felt a sort of plummeting in my chest. I could, in fact, imagine it. Not
the part about the slaughter—that, my mind couldn’t fathom. But there were
more slaves living in Charleston than whites, why shouldn’t they conceive a
plot to free themselves? It would have to be elaborate and bold in order to
succeed. And it couldn’t help but be violent.
Reflexively, I pressed my palms together beneath my chin, as if praying.
“. . . Dear God.”
“But you can’t take it seriously,” Nina said. “There was a similar
situation in Edgefield, remember? The white families were certain they
would be murdered in their beds. It was simple hysteria.”
“. . . What’s behind it? How did the rumor start?”
“It started with Colonel John Prioleau’s house slave. Apparently, he
heard news of a revolt at the wharves and reported it to the colonel, who
went to the authorities. The Guard tracked down the source—a slave named
William Paul, who’s well known, apparently, for being a braggart. The poor
man was arrested and is being held at the Work House.” Nina paused,
shuddering. “I can’t bear to think what they’ve done to him.”
Mother rapped the floor with her cane. “The mayor-intendent has
dismissed the matter. Governor Bennett has dismissed the matter. I want no
further talk of it. Just take heed, Sarah, the climate is a tinderbox.”
I longed to dismiss the possibility of a revolt, too, but I felt it inside of
me now like a tidal pull.
Seeking out Handful the next morning, I found her sitting on the kitchen
house steps beside Goodis with a needle in her hand and a brass thimble on
her pushing finger, hemming what looked like an apron. The two of them
were snickering as I approached, giving each other affectionate little jabs.
Seeing me, they ceased.
Goodis leapt to his feet and the top of his coveralls flopped down on
one side. Seized by a sudden ripple of nerves over how Handful would
respond to me, I pointed to where his button was missing. “. . . You’ll have
to get Handful to repair that for you,” I said, and regretted it instantly. It
sounded bossy and condescending. It was not how I’d wanted to reunite
with her.
“Yessum,” he said, and with a glance at Handful, left us.
I bent over and embraced her, looping my arms about her shoulders.
After a moment, she raised her arms and patted me on the sides of my ribs.
“Nina said you were coming back. You staying put now?”
“. . . I might.” I took a seat beside her. “. . . We’ll see.”
“Well, if I was you, I’d get back on the boat.”
I smiled at her. A strip of dark blue shade draped over us from the eave,
darkening as we fell silent. I found myself staring at the distorted way her
foot hooked inward, at the soughing rhythm of her hands, at her back
curved over her work, and I felt the old guilt.
I plied her with questions: how she’d fared since I left, how Mother had
treated her, how the other slaves had held up. I asked if perhaps she had a
special friendship with Goodis. She showed me the scar on her forehead,
calling it Mother’s handiwork. She said Aunt-Sister’s eyesight was failing
and Phoebe did most of the cooking, that Sabe couldn’t hold a candle to
Tomfry, and Minta was a good soul who took the brunt of “missus’
nastiness.” At the subject of Goodis, she merely grinned, which gave her
away.
“. . . What do you know about rumors of a slave revolt?” I finally asked.
Her hand grew still for a moment. “Why don’t you tell me what you
know about it?”
I repeated what Nina had said about the slave, William Paul, and his
claims of an uprising. “. . . The officials are telling the public they’re
untrue,” I added.
She laid the apron down. “They are? They don’t believe it’s true?” Her
face was flooded with such relief I got the feeling the revolt was not only
real, but that she knew a great deal about it.
“. . . Even if they believe such a plan exists, they would deny it,” I told
her, wanting her to understand the danger. “I doubt they’d acknowledge it
publicly. They wouldn’t want to cause a panic. Or tip their hand. If they’ve
found the slightest evidence of a plot, believe me, they’ll respond.”
She picked up the needle and thread and the hush fell again, heavier this
time. I watched her hand move up and down, making peaks and valleys,
then the flash of her thimble, and I remembered us—little girls on the roof,
her telling me about the true brass thimble. This same one, I imagined. I
could see her lying against the roof tiles, squinting at the blur of sky and
clouds, the teacup balanced on her tummy, her dress pocket stuffed with
feathers, their ruffled ends poking out. We’d spilled all of our secrets to one
another there. It was the closest thing to parity the two of us had ever found.
I tried to hold the picture in my mind, to breathe it back to life, but it
dissolved.
I didn’t expect her to confide in me anymore. She would keep her
secrets now.
Nina and I set out by foot for the tiny Quaker meetinghouse on Sunday, an
exceptionally long walk that took us to the other side of the city. We strolled
arm in arm as she told me about the letters that had arrived at the house for
weeks after my departure, inquiring about my health. I’d forgotten about the
consumption story Mother had concocted to explain my absence, and Nina
and I laughed about it all the way down Society Street.
A fierce summer rain had swept through overnight and the air was cool
and fresh, flooded with the scent of tea olive. Pink bougainvillea petals
floated on the rain puddles, and seeing them, having Nina beside me like
this on such a glorious day, I felt I might re-find my sense of belonging.
The past ten days had passed in relative quiet. I’d spent the time trying
to put the household back in order and having long talks with Nina, who
asked endless questions about the North, about the Quakers, about Israel.
I’d hoped to avoid all mention of him, but he slipped through the tiny
fractures anyway. Handful had avoided me. Gratefully, nothing out of the
ordinary had transpired in the city and reports of the slave insurrection had
dwindled as folks returned to the business at hand. I’d begun to think I’d
overreacted about it.
On this morning I was wearing my “abolition clothes,” as Mother
insisted on calling them. As a Quaker, that was all I was permitted to wear,
and heaven knows, I was nothing if not earnest. Earlier at breakfast, upon
learning of my intention to attend the Quaker Meeting and take Nina with
me, Mother had displayed a fit of temper so predictable we’d practically
yawned through it. It was just as well she didn’t know we’d decided to
walk.
Nearing the market, we began to hear the steady clomp of thunder in the
distance, then shouting. As we turned the corner, two slave women broke
past us, holding up their skirts and sprinting. Marching toward us were at
least a hundred South Carolina militia with their sabers and pistols drawn.
They were flanked by the City Guard, who carried muskets instead of their
typical truncheons.
It was Market Sunday, a day when the slaves were heavily congregated
on the streets. Standing frozen, Nina and I watched them flee in panic as
hussars on horseback rushed at them, shouting at them to disperse.
“What’s happening?” Nina said.
I gazed at the pandemonium, oddly stunned. We’d come to a standstill
before the Carolina Coffee House, and I thought at first we would duck
inside, but it was locked. “We should go back,” I told her.
As we turned to leave, however, a street vendor, a slave girl no more
than twelve, bolted toward us, and in her fright and panic, she stumbled,
spilling her basket of vegetables across our path. Instinctively, Nina and I
bent to help her retrieve the radishes and cabbages and rolling potatoes.
“Step away!” a man yelled. “You!”
Lifting my forehead, I glimpsed an officer trotting toward us on his
horse. He was speaking to me and Nina. We straightened, while the girl
went on crawling about in the dirt after her bruised wares.
“. . . We’re doing no harm by assisting her,” I said as he reined to a stop.
His attention, though, was not on the turnip in my hand, but on my dress.
“Are you Quaker?”
He had a large, bony face with slightly bulging eyes that made him look
more terrorizing perhaps than he truly was, but such logic was lost to me
then. Fear and dread rushed up from my throat, and my tongue, feeble
creature, lay in my mouth like a slug in its cleft.
“Did you hear me?” he said calmly. “I asked if you’re one of those
religious pariahs who agitate against slavery.”
I moved my lips, yet nothing came, only this terrible, silent mouthing.
Nina stepped close and interlocked her fingers in mine. I knew she wanted
to speak for me, but she refrained, waiting. Closing my eyes, I heard the
gulls from the harbor calling to each other. I pictured them gliding on
currents of air and resting on swells of water.
“I am a Quaker,” I said, the words arriving without the jerk of hesitation
that preceded most of my sentences. I heard Nina release her breath.
Sensing an altercation, two white men stopped to stare. Behind them, I
saw the slave girl dashing away with her basket.
“What’s your name?” the officer asked.
“I’m Sarah Grimké. Who, sir, are you?”
He didn’t bother to answer. “You aren’t Judge Grimké’s daughter—
surely.”
“He was my father, yes. He has been dead almost three years.”
“Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t live to see you like this.”
“. . . I beg your pardon? I don’t see that my beliefs are any of your
concern.” I had the feeling of floating free from my moorings. What came
to me was the memory of being adrift in the sea that day at Long Branch
while Father lay ill. Floating far from the rope.
The columns of militia had finally reached us and were passing behind
the officer in a wave of noise and swagger. His horse began to bob its head
nervously as he raised his voice over the din. “Out of respect for the judge, I
won’t detain you.”
Nina broke in. “What right do you have—”
I interrupted, wanting to keep her from wading into waters that were
becoming increasingly treacherous. Strangely, I felt no such compunction
for myself. “. . . Detain me?” I said. “On what grounds?”
By now, a horde of people had joined the two leering men. A man
wearing a Sunday morning coat spit in my direction. Nina’s hand tightened
on mine.
“Your beliefs, even your appearance, undermine the order I’m trying to
keep here,” the officer said. “They disturb the peace of good citizens and
give unwanted notions to the slaves. You’re feeding the very kind of
insurgency that’s going on right now in our city.”
“. . . What insurgency?”
“Are you going to pretend you haven’t heard the rumors? There was a
plot among the slaves to massacre their owners and escape. That would, I
believe, include you and your sister here. It was to take place this night, but
I assure you it has been thoroughly outwitted.”
Lifting the reins from the horn of his saddle, he glanced at the passing
militia, then turned back to me. “Go home, Miss Grimké. Your presence on
the street is unwanted and inflammatory.”
“Go home!” someone in the crowd shouted, and then they all took it up.
I drew myself up, glaring at their angry faces. “. . . What would you
have the slaves do?” I cried. “. . . If we don’t free them, they will free
themselves by whatever means.”
“Sarah!” Nina cried in surprise.
As the crowd began to hurl vicious epithets at me, I took her by the arm
and we hurried back the way we’d come, walking quickly. “Don’t look
back,” I told her.
“Sarah,” she said, breathless, her voice overflowing with awe. “You’ve
become a public mutineer.”
The slave revolt didn’t come that night, or any night. The city fathers had
indeed ferreted out the plot through the cruel persuasions of the Work
House. During the days that followed, news of the intended revolt ravaged
Charleston like an epidemic, leaving it dazed and petrified. Arrests were
made, and it was said there would be a great many more. I knew it was the
beginning of what would become a monstrous backlash. Residents were
already fortifying their fence tops with broken bottles until permanent iron
spikes could be installed. The chevaux-de-frise would soon encircle the
most elegant homes like ornamental armor.
In the months ahead, a harsh new order would be established.
Ordinances would be enacted to control and restrict slaves further, and
severer punishments would ensue. A Citadel would be built to protect the
white populace. But that first week, we were all still gripped with shock.
My defiance on the street became common knowledge. Mother could
barely look at me without blanching, and even Thomas showed up to warn
me that the patronage of his firm would be harmed if I persisted in that kind
of folly. Only Nina stood by me.
And Handful.
She was cleaning the mahogany staircase late one afternoon in the
aftermath of the event when a rock flew through the front window of the
drawing room, shattering the pane. Hearing the explosion of glass all the
way on the second floor, I hurried down to find Handful with her back
pressed against the wall beside the broken window, trying to peer out
without being seen. She waved me back. “Watch out, they could toss
another one.”
A stone the size of a hen’s egg lay on the rug in a nest of shards. Shouts
drifted from the street. Slave lover. Nigger lover. Abolitionist. Northern
whore.
We stared at each other as the sounds melted away. The room turned
quiet, serene. Light was pouring in, hitting the scattered glass, turning it
into pieces of fire on the crimson rug. The sight bereaved me. Not because I
was despised, but because of how powerless I felt, because it seemed I
could do nothing. I was soon to be thirty, and I’d done nothing.
They say in extreme moments time will slow, returning to its unmoving
core, and standing there, it seemed as if everything stopped. Within the
stillness, I felt the old, irrepressible ache to know what my point in the
world might be. I felt the longing more solemnly than anything I’d ever felt,
even more than my old innate loneliness. What came to me was the fleur de
lis button in the box and the lost girl who’d put it there, how I’d twice
carried it from Charleston to Philadelphia and back, carried it like a sad,
decaying hope.
Across the room, Handful strode into the glowing debris on the rug,
bent and picked up the stone. I watched as she turned it over in her hands,
knowing I would leave this place yet again. I would return north to make
what life I could.
