For weeks the controversy had raged—sermons were preached, columns and letters were written. Theodore Parker, young minister in Boston, was denounced by his fellow-clergymen because he sided with Garrison. Now they had all come to Nantucket—Garrisonites and anti-Garrisonites; the issue of slavery was tabled while scholars drew nice lines in the science of casuistry and ethics, and theologians chanted dogmas.
All morning Garrison sat silent. His right hand twitched nervously. Pains shot up into his arm. His face was drawn and tired. His heart was heavy. Here and there in the crowd a bewildered black face turned to him. William Lloyd Garrison lowered his eyes and shut his teeth against a groan that welled up from his heart.
And so he did not see one more dark figure push into the hall; but William C. Coffin, a Quaker and ardent Abolitionist, did. He had met Frederick at the house of his friend, Nathan Johnson. Coffin made his way back through the crowd and laid his hand on Frederick’s arm.
“Thee are well come, my friend,” he said.
Frederick had been peering anxiously toward the platform. He was so far back, the crowd was so thick and the people wedged in so tightly, that he despaired of hearing or seeing anything; but he smiled a warm greeting at the Quaker.
“Follow me, there are seats up front,” Friend Coffin was saying.
The older man led the way down a side aisle, and there close against the wall was a little space. Frederick gratefully slipped in beside his friend.
“This is fine,” he whispered, “I hated to miss anything.” He looked around at the other occupants of the side seats. He spoke worriedly. “But—But I don’t belong up here.”
The Quaker smiled. “This is thy place.” He leaned closer, and his eyes were very earnest. “Douglass, I am asking thee to speak a few words to the convention this afternoon.”
Frederick stared at him. He gasped.