Moreover, it fell to my lot not only to be at times the subject of objurgation in secession newspapers, but the enemies of the Union also honored me by threatening to take my life. On a June morning of 1861, a gentleman accosted me at the Post-office, whither I had gone for my morning mail, and with pardonable inquisitiveness and much earnestness asked if I went out nights. I assured him that I did. He then urgently advised me not to do so, saying that he knew that a plot had been laid to kill me. I answered that I had very important duties as a Christian pastor, and when in order to perform them it was necessary for me to go out in the evening, I must go regardless of consequences to myself. Although a stranger to me, he declared himself to be a friend, and that he said what he did out of personal solicitude for me. He wished to know if I were not afraid. I assured him that I had not the slightest consciousness of fear; and that come life or death I proposed to stand at my post and do my duty. He went his way and I went mine. Soon it occurred to me that I did not ask his name, and who my solicitous friend was I never learned.
Very soon thereafter a neighboring pastor called upon me, and with evident anxiety which expressed itself both in his words and in the tone of his voice, detailed what he had heard about the planned assassination of myself. He thought that I was in imminent danger and that perhaps it might be best for me to leave the State. I replied that I suspected that some of these gruesome stories had been invented to frighten me from my post; and, if that was the design, the authors of them had missed their mark. As for myself I had no apprehension of any special danger, and I had settled the question as to what course I should take; it was my unalterable purpose to go right on in the discharge of my duties as a minister of the gospel and as a citizen of Missouri and of the United States, if the heavens fell. What the foundation of these murderous rumors was I never attempted to discover. Society in the city was wrenched from its moorings, and was tempest-tossed. That some cherished wild and bloody purposes was only too evident. Now and then a citizen, under the darkness of night, was done to death in the street, and they who did the deed of blood were never discovered. Men’s minds were filled with apprehension. Their imaginations were weirdly active. No human mind fully understood the situation; none but the divine mind could fathom and comprehend it. No man could see the dangers that stealthily lurked by his pathway; then as ever there was only one safe thing for any true man to do, trust in God and fearlessly do his duty as he saw it day by day.
In November of 1861, General Halleck took forcible possession of the main rendezvous of the secessionists of the city and seized the arms, furniture, books and papers that were found there. One book among others stirred up no little excitement. In it were several pages of names of our citizens. One column of names was written in red ink, the rest in black. Upon investigation it was ascertained that it was the declared purpose of the disloyal, who made the place their headquarters, when the city should be taken by the Confederates, to seize those whose names were written in red and, without trial, hang them from the nearest lamp-post or telegraph-pole; while those whose names were written in black were to be thrown into prison and tried by court martial. At the head of the red list stood the flaming name of Frank P. Blair. Beneath his many of us were permitted to read our names upon that blood-red roll of honor.
The instances of malignity now noted by us are but a few among many. Still such bitterness was far from being universal. There seemed to be comparatively little of it among the loyal. They were resolute, but not often virulent. They were animated by confident hope. Few of them, after Camp Jackson was taken, ever believed that Missouri would secede. They however saw the need of constant vigilance. They coped with an able foe; but feeling that their star was in the ascendant, they gave themselves largely to works of charity, generously meeting the wants of both friends and foes. On the other hand, the cause of the disloyal was clearly on the wane. The fact was so evident that they were often in a state of desperation. In such trying circumstances some of them gave way to blind passion. Their better natures were overborne and some of them expressed their pent up bitterness in hot, hasty words, or in despicable deeds; still a large majority of them, in all the stress of the hour, cherished and manifested a kindly spirit. But it has been necessary for us, in order faithfully to depict society as it was in St. Louis during the war, to present some of the many sad and startling exhibitions of bitterness.
CHAPTER XI
SLAVES AND SLAVE-PENS
When the Civil War broke out, as we have before said, there were only about fifteen hundred slaves in St. Louis. Among these the females, specially demanded for domestic service, far outnumbered the males. While the system of slavery was essentially barbarous and cruel, most of these bondmen were kindly treated. Occasionally, however, some brutal master gave vent to his passion and punished his slaves with unreasonable and unbridled severity. A man of my acquaintance, who had among his household servants a small colored girl, not more than fifteen years old, for trivial offences, used to take her into the bath-room, remove all her clothing, and then hold her for many minutes at a time under the streaming cold water of the shower bath. Her cries, while undergoing this torture, could be heard in the street and in the houses of his neighbors. And while humane slaveholders denounced the savagery, such was the law, and such was public sentiment, that nobody ventured to take the part of the poor slave girl, while her owner and tormentor gloried in his cruelty, evidently regarding the punishment as original and a mark of his genius.
But, on the other hand, there were some masters who were conspicuous for their kindness to their slaves. One of the deacons of my church was a slaveholder. He was a Virginian by birth. His slaves came to him by inheritance. He was a tall man with sandy hair and a mild blue eye. In him, linked with sterling ability, were rare modesty and unusual benevolence. Giving seemed to be a luxury to him. He contributed to every good cause to the extent of his ability and often beyond what could have been reasonably required of him. The suggestion of a smile was always upon his lips. No one that observed it could ever forget it. It was a part of the man; the outward expression of the sunshine of his soul. And yet this noble, tender-hearted man held his fellow men in bondage.
About two months after I became his pastor, in response to his cordial invitation, one evening I dined with him. After the cheerful meal was over, he took me aside into a private room, and to my astonishment and delight said: “If you ever wish to say anything in the pulpit against slavery you need not hesitate on my account; there are two things that I abominate: one is selling liquor, and the other is selling niggers.” Yes, he said “niggers;” they all did. He then told me that he had inherited his slaves, and felt under solemn obligation to care for them. He also declared that they were all manumitted, and that their manumission papers were in a certain drawer in a bureau, which he pointed out to me; so, if he should die, they would all be free. But he said, “I do not wish them to know this. They are all young and I am trying to train them, so that when they know that they are free and must shift for themselves, they will be able to earn their own living. They are well cared for; for the present I am the nigger of this household.” So he was. Marshal Brotherton served everybody, even his own slaves.
The sexton of my church was a colored man. Everybody called him George. One day he said to me, “I am the slave of Marse Brotherton. If he should die, I’se afraid I’ll be sold down souf. Won’t you speak to him about it, and axe him to make me free?” I told him that I would, and I soon found my opportunity to do so. My good deacon then told me the story of George. A few years before George belonged to a man who lived in the county of St. Louis, outside the city. His master died. When settling up his estate the executors put George in the county jail for safe-keeping, intending to sell him to New Orleans slave-traders. Mr. Brotherton was at that time sheriff of the county. Visiting the jail one day, George entreated him to buy him and keep him from being carried down to the New Orleans slave market, which all slaves instinctively dreaded. Mr. Brotherton did not need a servant, but his heart was so touched with pity for him that he bought him. He at once opened an account of which the slave knew nothing, charging George a fair price for keeping, and crediting him with his earnings. In a little while the slave had paid for himself. His manumission papers were then made out. All this was concealed from George. He was a freeman, but did not know it. Mr. Brotherton had set him up in the wood and coal business, was teaching him how to buy and sell and keep his account books, so that he could intelligently care for himself. Having heard this interesting and touching story of my sexton and Christian brother,—for George was a true believer in Christ and an exemplary member of the church,—I asked Mr. Brotherton if in his judgment it would be well for me to tell him that he was a freeman in order to relieve him of anxiety. For a moment that bewitching smile played upon his lips, and then he said, “Yes, you may tell him if you want to.”
The next day I met George at the church. It was a great joy to me to tell a man who thought that he was a slave that instead he was a freeman. And my poor pen cannot depict either his happiness or mine, as I told him that simple story of his master’s kindness and benevolence of which he had been the unconscious recipient. He listened at first amazed; then joy beamed from those large, tear-filled, black eyes. He seemed at once to be transformed. In broken utterances he expressed his gratitude to his master and to me. There was no happier soul on earth than he just then. He had come to his duties that day supposing that he was a slave; he did those duties with the new-born sense that he was free. No two states of mind could be in sharper contrast. To him old things in a moment passed away, and all things became new.