They recognized His shining angels when they came: a tired and dirty soldier, in a torn and tattered uniform; a grizzled old man hobbling out from town; a breathless woman, finding her way through the swamp to tell them; a gaunt, white “cracker” risking his life to let them know; a fleet-footed black boy, running, running down the road. These were the messengers who brought them word.
And the song of joy went up. Free! Free! Free! Black men and women lifted their quivering hands and shouted across the fields. The rocks and trees, the rivers and the mountains echoed their voices—the universe was glad the morning freedom’s song rang in the South.
Part IV
TOWARD MORNING
The seeds of the Declaration of Independence are slowly ripening.
—John Quincy Adams
Chapter Fifteen
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed
“When the Hebrews were emancipated they were told to take spoil from the Egyptians. When the serfs of Russia were emancipated, they were given three acres of ground upon which they could live and make a living. But not so when our slaves were emancipated. They were sent away empty-handed, without money, without friends, and without a foot of land to stand upon. Old and young, sick and well were turned loose to the open sky, naked to their enemies.”
Fifteen years later Douglass was to say this to a tense audience, their large eyes, so bright that “freedom morning,” veiled again with pain. If only Lincoln had been spared! How many times in the months and years had they harked back to that towering figure and asked, “Why?”