Mending the Baron's Sins: A Historical

Regency Romance Novel Meghan Sloan

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Mending the Baron's Sins
A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL

MEGHAN SLOAN
 Copyright © 2024 by Meghan Sloan

All Rights Reserved.

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

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Mending the Baron's Sins

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23
 Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

A Wicked Duke's Redemption

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4
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Mending the Baron's Sins

Introduction

Orla has had one dream for many years, to heal others, but a vindictive suitor blocked her path to a London midwifery career.
Desperate, she accepts an offer to mend Baron De Rees, once the tempting blue-eyed boy of the ton and now dangerously ill.
However, as she delves into his mysterious world, an irresistible pull draws her closer. When the lines blur between
professional duty and forbidden desire, a stolen kiss will ignite a great passion within her.
Will she resist a temptation that could reshape her destiny?
Horace Coates, Baron De Rees is sick and haunted by past mistakes of his arrogant, selfish life, marked by bitterness and
regret. When Orla, an unexpected healer, emerges to tend to his afflictions, Horace realizes that she is connected to his tragic
story. Torn between his notorious history and ailing present, the beguiling Orla awakens a sizzling passion he cannot tame. As
Horace seeks redemption, he slowly realizes that her scandalous touch will be the medicine he always craved for.
If only his burning love could free him from his golden cage…
As Orla and Horace's forbidden romance deepens into something more than just stolen moments behind closed doors, a deep
buried secret blocks their every step to happiness. The more Orla sees of Horace’s illness, the more she can’t help wondering
if there’s something else behind it all. Will Orla stay long enough to discover the truth or will she leave fearing scandal? Can
their love be the force against the sea of lies and fear surrounding them?
Chapter 1

Lancashire, 1815

“Aye, it’s cold,” Orla muttered to herself as she stepped down from the carriage and onto the track road. She glanced back at
the carriage, a dark and elegant structure, the wood ornately painted black with rich deep curtains shrouded across the
windows. It seemed an omen to her mind, more like a funeral carriage than a coach to take a worker to their new home.

She turned her back on the carriage as the groom, George, took her bags from the back of the coach.

“You’re new to Ingleby then, miss?” George said with a heavy Lancashire accent.

“Aye, that’s right.” Orla’s Irish accent sounded strong in comparison. She smiled at him, wrapped her thick woolen shawl
tighter around her shoulders, then shifted her focus to the hall before her.

In the autumn breeze and gray cloud, Ingleby Hall was a dark building indeed. Trees nearby shivered and waved their branches
in the breeze, their copper and apricot tinged leaves flying off and whipping past her. She squinted and raised her hand to cover
her brow, shielding her gaze from the onslaught of leaves.

“Ah, bracing here, lass,” George said beside her with a chuckle. “I would have thought Ireland was colder, though.”

“Manchester.”

“What?” he said distractedly, halting at her side as he waved at the carriage driver.

“I’m from Manchester. My parents are Irish,” she hurried to explain, glancing at the carriage. “Grand, eh? The grandest I have
ever been in.”

“Well, from what I hear, they were eager to have you here, Miss.” George nodded and led the way up the track toward Ingelby
Hall.

What is happening here? Why are they so eager to have me?

Orla kept the myriad of questions to herself as she looked at the hall. The wide building looked Tudor, or even Stuart in
structure. The far left was made completely of redbrick, though the right side was made up of Tudor timber and white mottled
walls. The lead-lined windows didn’t gleam in the gray light of the day but looked more like black abysses.

The formal garden on either side of the path she now walked down was scrubby, with no autumnal flowers, but only grey
twigs, longing for the life that spring would bring again. She nearly slipped more than once on the damp gravel as she followed
George toward the house.

The manor reminded her of a darkened heart. It was twisted, covered in shadows, and was repeatedly whipped by the autumnal
leaves that flew past her in the wind. She shivered, holding her leather reticule close to her chest as she pulled the shawl
tighter around her shoulders still. The nearer she got to the door, she lifted her bonnet from her head, desperate to take in the
full height and scale of the building. Her long brown hair tried to escape its updo in the enthusiastic wind.

The door was opened by a man wearing a butler’s garb who beckoned George inside. She followed behind them, sharing a
brief smile with the butler as she looked around the hall.

It was a vast entrance, more like an old great hall, once used for Tudor feasts and dancing, then an entrance at all. Portraits on
the wall looked out at her with ancient, hooked noses, suspicion in their beady black eyes. Even the butler glanced at her more
than once as he went to aid George with his bags.

“You are here at the bequest of Mr. Byrne?” the butler asked, scarcely looking at her as he spoke.

“Aye. Mr. Colm Byrne.” Her accent clearly startled him, for he glanced up from the bags as he made his way toward the stairs.

“He’ll be here to see you shortly.”

“Thank you.” She stepped forward as he left the room with George, looking around the hall a little more. Floorboards creaked
above and she lifted her head to see a line of young maids, even younger than her, all lined up behind the balustrade on the
landing. They were whispering and pointing down at her. When they saw she had seen them, they all promptly scurried away
again, hiding behind nearby timber beams.

What a warm welcome.

She kept the thought to herself and stepped forward, eager to see her uncle.

She was here at Colm’s request. It was true, but not to attend to him. Her Uncle Colm was the surgeon to the master of the
house, a man by the name of Horace Cotes, or Baron De Rees. She peered back and forth across the ancient paintings. Most of
the characters within the frames bore Tudor and Stuart dress, but she was looking for a man in modern dress–a man who could
be Baron De Rees.

A door banged somewhere in the distance. A voice raged and cursed so loudly that Orla flinched and turned around. There had
to be a second set of stairs in the house, for she heard them creaking under someone’s racing feet. Through an open doorway a
man appeared. He looked to be no more than thirty years old. He didn’t look at her at first, but continued to curse inwardly.
When Orla stepped back, her foot tapping the floorboards beneath her, he snatched his head up.

His spine abruptly straightened, and his chin lifted. The cropped dark hair on his head was waxed to a perfect shine, and no
crease of his suit jacket was out of place.

“You are the nurse, yes?” he said distractedly, moving right past her, though he clearly expected her to answer.

“Aye, I am.”

“Ha, good luck,” he muttered darkly, the sarcasm plain as day.

He continued to march past her, leaving her dumbstruck. He stepped out of the door and, for good measure, just to show his
irritation all the more, he slammed the door behind him.
One of the paintings on a nearby wall went crooked because of the movement.

In the silence afterwards, Orla tiptoed toward the painting and set it straight again.

“What a warm place,” she whispered to herself.

“Orla?”

She spun around at her name, looking through the open doorway that the stranger had just appeared.

“Uncle Colm?”

He smiled in greeting, hurrying toward her. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he wiped his hands on a white cloth
as he neared her.

“Ah, I am glad to see you,” he said, with not a trace of the Irish accent that had once been his in his voice. Many years ago, he
had adopted a strong Manchester lilt in its place, blending in with society around him. “I’m sorry. I wish I could have come and
collected you from your parents’ house myself.”

“The baron’s carriage was enough to cause questions.” She grimaced. “You can well imagine what a coach as grand as that did
on our street.” Colm nodded knowingly, matching her expression, making his dark brown hair dance around his ears.

“The baron needed me today. We were hardly expecting a meeting from his business partner, on today of all days.” He sighed
loudly and rubbed his brow.

Out of habit, Orla took the cloth from him and folded it neatly, returning it to the pocket in his waistcoat for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered with a sad sort of smile.

“His business partner… would he be the man who stormed from this house now? Rather like a child having a tantrum.”

“Be careful with your wit in this house, Orla.” Colm fought his smile on this occasion. “Yes, that would be him. Mr. Walter
Gladstone is his name.”

“And the baron?” She glanced over her uncle’s shoulder. “If I am to attend to him, perhaps it is wise that I meet him?”

“You and your curiosity.” He tutted, though there was still fondness in his voice. “Come, another time. Lord knows the baron is
in no state for visitors now.” He took her leather reticule from her. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you.”

He led her through the doorway and to the second staircase, hurrying up together.
“How was your journey?” he asked her many questions as they walked, and she answered all of them woodenly, thinking more
of her surroundings than the house she had left.

“It was long, but I am here now.”

“And your parents? I bet they had much to say about me taking you away from your home. I do not doubt my brother spoke
again about how it was high time you settled down and married.”

“You know my father well,” she murmured, her eyes on the poky corridor and the low-lying brown timber beams that her uncle
nearly hit his head on as they walked along.

“This way.” He led her down a turning and to the east wing, to which a door was ajar.

Muffled voices sounded within, ones that were clearly so angry, Orla found herself slowing her pace.

A glass shattered. Had it been thrown against a wall? Had it been thrown at someone?

“Never mind about that,” Colm whispered hurriedly, clearly eager to get her away from this part of the house. “Come, quickly,
Orla.”

She did as he asked, following in his shadow.

When they found her room, her portmanteaus had been left here by George and the butler. It was a small room at the back of the
house, yet larger than the one from home that she had to share with her siblings. The roof was slanted, meaning she’d have to be
careful when she climbed in and out of bed, not to hit her head on the timber beams, but the furniture pieces were impressive.
She had two chests of drawers, an old coffer, and a sideboard topped with her own washbowl and jug.

“Goodness,” she whispered. “It is quite a place.” She moved to the window and peered through the latticed glass out at the
garden. It struck her that in the summer, when the sun shined, it might be a fair-looking garden with red roses gleaming in the
light. “I bet this is a fine view in summer.”

“Be warned, Orla.” Colm placed her bag down on the bed for her. “The sun does not shine particularly often here.”

She looked around at him, raising her eyebrows, but he didn’t say anymore.

“I’ll leave you to get settled. We can share dinner later and discuss the baron’s condition.” He hovered in the doorway,
glancing back at her with one of those easy and warm expressions she had come to love over the years.

When her parents had been wary of her pursuing a career in medicine, Colm was the one who had encouraged her. At one
point, it had seemed she was on the verge of entering a midwifery career in London when another party put a stop to it. She had
much to thank Colm for, when others had told her this life was not possible.

“I am glad you are here,” he said softly. Momentarily, she heard the Irish lilt in his voice, then it was gone as he wished her
well and left.
Orla hurried to unpack her things. She paid particular attention to the medicinal equipment she had brought with her, and her
bottles of herbs and tonics, devoting an entire chest of drawers to these contents.

“Knock, knock.” These words were accompanied by a tapping sound on the open door.

Orla put down her things and turned to see one of the maids who had been staring at her from the top of the stairs poking her
face through the gap.

“Only me,” she said self-deprecatingly with a humble smile. “I thought I should introduce myself. I’m Esther.” She curtsied,
and Orla hurried to mirror her. Esther pushed back one loose curl of blonde hair that had escaped out of her coif, tucking it
back under the white muslin. “I am sorry we were all staring at you just now. We were eager to see you.” She smiled and
quickly quelled it. “There aren’t many who would take on the care of Lord De Rees.”

“No?” Orla said with curiosity, but Esther didn’t elaborate. “Well, I am glad to meet you.”

“As I am you. Any help in this house is greatly appreciated. I do the fires and the laundry, but you can ask for my help with
anything if you need it. Can I help you unpack?” She gestured to what was left in the portmanteau.

Orla was usually wary of new people, but there was something in Esther’s humble manner and the pinkness of her cheeks as
she took the courage to introduce herself that made Orla like the maid before her.

“Thank you. That’s most kind.” Orla returned to her unpacking as Esther passed her things out of the portmanteau.

“You’re Irish?” Esther asked. “I love your accent. Far nicer than mine.” She giggled.

“Thank you. Aye, Irish by blood, but raised in Manchester.”

“How was your journey?” Esther picked up a small leather bag out of the portmanteau and passed it to her. Unfortunately, the
bag was unbuttoned, and a small silver ring fell out of the pouch. It rolled across the floor, in danger of tucking itself under one
of the chests of drawers. “Oops, I am sorry.” Esther ran after it, managing to catch it narrowly before it disappeared. She
picked it up, turned and passed it back to Orla.

With her heart hammering in her chest, Orla took the ring. It was cold and unyielding beneath her fingers. For a second, she just
stood there, feeling the fluttering of her heart as she waited for Esther to ask about the ring, but fortunately, Esther did no such
thing. She turned to help Orla with the rest of her things. Breathing a sigh of relief, Orla returned to the drawers.

“The journey was fine, but I am happy to be here. If I can make a difference… If I can help the baron…”

“The baron needs much help.” Esther giggled, blushed red, then held a quieting hand over her lips. “I should not speak so.
Forgive me, Miss Byrne, but I give you one warning about the baron. I do not mean it to be unkind. I just wish to put you on
your guard.”

“What do you mean?” Orla asked, fixing her whole attention on the maid as she took a stack of gowns from Esther.

“I mean…” Esther paused and chewed her lip, seeming hesitant about giving her full opinion. “Suffice it to say that healing the
baron may be a fool’s errand. Something beyond reach.” She tucked that disobeying loose lock of blond hair beneath her coif
again and shifted her focus to the medicinal kit in the open drawers. Fascinated, with her eyes lighting up, she gestured to the
many glass vials. “Enough somberness for one day. This looks exciting. Would you tell me all about it? I’ve only ever been a
maid. Cannot imagine being a nurse for a living.”

Orla struggled to reply. Her mind was still dwelling on Esther’s warning.

Why is healing the baron a fool’s errand?

Chapter 2

Horace stared at the shattered glass at his feet. For a moment, those broken shards blurred together. They glistened more like a
viscous liquid than what they were, lethal and sharp. He blinked, recognizing the prickling feeling of tears in his eyes. He
forced them away and roused his body.

Breaking every glass in his chamber was hardly going to help now, even if each one of Walter’s visits these days seemed to
leave him even more frustrated and angry than before he arrived.

Horace glanced around the empty chamber, wiping his eyes and stopping any further falling of tears. The room was full of
medicines and empty glass bottles left on nearby tables and bureaus. He supposed the maids had been warned not to come in so
often these days, in case he threw any more glasses around the room.

“Damn body,” he muttered in anger, and moved to his knees before the shattered glass. As he did so, the dizziness swirled in
his mind. He braced a hand against a nearby timber beam and bowed his head, urging the sickness to stop.

This is not me. What happened to me? What happened to the athleticism and strength of my youth?

He turned his head and glanced at a looking glass propped up against a nearby wall. In this position, he could just see the side
of his body and his hand braced against the timber. There was gauntness in his cheeks, the cheekbones more pronounced than
they ever were in his youth, and not in a handsome way, but an ill way. His whole body was thinner than it once was, no longer
strong with muscle, still lithe, but also…

“Weak,” he muttered aloud.

Cursing once more, he picked up the shards of glass, gathering them together in the palm of his hand. As he stood, he staggered
to the side, struggling to find his balance, then dropped the shards into a bowl on one of his bureaus.

“Horace?” A hand caught his shoulder.

“God’s blood!” Horace exclaimed in alarm, flinging his body around to see that Adam was in his room. “How did you get in
here?”

“I knocked a couple of times.” Adam offered the easy smile that was always on his face. His cousin and good friend, the one
who had taken over the running of the house and estate in Horace’s infirmity, stood before him. “I’m sorry to give you such a
fright.” Adam laughed softly.

Horace yearned for the comfort his cousin could bring. They did not look particularly different, the same height, the same dark
copper hair, though Horace’s was longer these days and Adam’s was cut short. The main difference between them was that at
least Adam had a healthy look to his skin and a little more weight on his bones.

Adam had a habit of bringing easy humor with him wherever he went. It was something Horace longed for, when he was tired
of being shut up in this room for days on end, all on his own.

“How about you take a rest in bed?” Adam suggested, then glanced down at Horace’s hand. “You cut yourself on that glass you
threw.”

“What?” Horace looked distractedly at his hand. “Oh. It’s nothing.” He dabbed the cut dry with a cloth. “I don’t need to go
back to bed.” When he staggered and ended up leaning against the bedpost, he cursed once more. “I’m still not going back to
bed.”

“Very well.” Adam cleared up some more of the mess of broken glass shards that Horace hadn’t even realized he’d left behind.
“How about a walk around the farms? Let’s go get some air. You used to love riding in the farmland and fields.”

“I know I did, but…” Horace wished he could say yes. “No. I need to save my energy.” He rubbed his brow in stress. “I’m
sorry for my outburst, if you heard it. Walter came again.”

“Ah, what did he do this time?” Adam dropped the bits of glass with the others into a bowl, then turned and took Horace’s
shoulders. When Horace dug his feet into the ground, refusing to be steered toward the bed, Horace took him to the low-lying
ottoman in front of the lead-latticed window instead.

“He has made financial investments again. Joint investments, before even consulting me. The snake.”

“He’s your friend. Your dearest friend.”

“Is he?” Horace scoffed as he dropped down onto the ottoman, feeling more like a sack of potatoes than human at all. “I’m not
so sure anymore, Adam. He is taking my money and investing it without my knowledge. For all I know, these could be scams,
deceptions to deceive me out of money. He says he’s doing it all for me–to protect my money and avoid worrying me in my
time of need.” He was disgusted by the phrase that Walter had used.

Adam offered no words. He simply produced a glass of water and thrust it into Horace’s hands.

“Thank you,” Horace murmured and took a sip. There was something in the back of his mind that grated with these words.

Guilt. That’s what it is.

There was a time when he scarcely ever said thank you or showed any sort of politeness at all. Now confined to his bed, he
was much more reliant on those words than he had once been. It also brought to home perhaps how many times he had been
indebted to Adam for his help, and yet neglected to thank him for his kindness.

I am a different man these days, in so many ways.

He took another small sip from the glass, deep in thought.

“How does the estate fare?”

“All well, and your tenants are happy.” Adam clapped him on the shoulder. “I have written everything up for you, including my
suggestions, and I’ll leave the papers for you here to look over when you’re feeling better. Rest, cousin. Please.” He squeezed
Horace’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’ll call on you later, yes?”
“Very well.” He nodded, listening to the floorboards in the old house creak as Adam made his way to the door. “Adam?” he
called as Adam reached the doorway and glanced back. “Thank you. Truly. For… everything.” His voice was deep, almost
tremulous.

“Any time, cousin.” Adam winked and left, letting the door close softly behind him. The moment he was gone, Horace’s spine
slumped.

Must I have everyone wait hand on foot for me?

Angered, he flung himself around on the ottoman as best as he could, cursing the sudden dizziness in his head at the movement.
He gripped the old stone windowsill and veered forward, practically pressing his face flat to the glass as he stared out at the
garden beyond.

Between the twiggy bushes that had shed their leaves walked two women. One he recognized. Esther, the maid, was walking
with another woman beside her–one that Horace did not recognize.

He wiped the condensation from the glass as his breath clouded the window, peering at the woman more intently.

The dark brown hair was tied neatly into a chignon, though there was a single long lock that hung down and teased the nape of
her neck. She was beautiful. There was no denying. The large eyes dominated her features, the full lips tempting Horace with
imaginings he had not visited in months. She was small and lithe in build, almost doll like with the rosy tint of her cheeks.

“Oh dear,” he muttered. “Where did you come from, temptation?”

There had been a time when Horace would have been out of his chamber already, intent on talking to the woman. Charm had
come easy to him at one point in his life. Exactly how many women had he seduced into his bed in his younger years? Many,
each one knowing what it was–pure seduction and excitement, no hearts, but only bodies and thrills to share. Some of those
nights taunted him now with longing, for he knew he did not have the strength for such things now.

Yet something stirred in his gut as he looked at the stranger. She turned her head and laughed warmly at something that Esther
had said. The full lips parting captured him, and a wild idea entered his head.

He saw himself kissing those lips amongst the bare and autumnal grounds. He saw the two of them together pressed up against
one of the trees, copper leaves falling around them as he pulled at her skirt, trying to reach for the place he knew would bring
her the most pleasure. He could practically hear the breathy moaning in his ear, the cry of pleasure, as his hand slid home.

She turned to look up at him and not in his imagination, but in reality, her head lifting toward his window. Abruptly, Horace
grabbed the curtain and pulled it shut fast across the glass, blocking out the gray light of the day.

“That’s not me anymore,” he muttered gruffly, shutting down temptation before it could begin.

***

“Enter,” Horace called as he pulled his shirt over his chest. He’d long ago dismissed his valet from helping to dress him.
Though some days he barely had the strength to dress himself, he was determined to do it.
At least it is one thing in my life I can control.

“My Lord, I come with my new assistant. Oh.” There was a gasp of surprise from Mr. Byrne.

Horace turned from his place beside his open chest of drawers, wearing only his trousers and his shirt. It was an odd thing to
gasp at. Mr. Byrne was his surgeon and physician. It was hardly the first time Mr. Byrne had seen him in a state of undress.

Then Horace’s eyes fell on the assistant at his side.

That is no man.

The woman he had spied in the garden the day before was staring at him, quite agog with parted lips, and a leather doctor’s
satchel in her arms. Her eyes darted down him, to the unlaced neck of his shirt, and the evident glimpse of his bare chest
beneath.

“My apologies, my lord,” Mr. Byrne said hurriedly, stepping into the room and lowering his own bag to the table as if he was
in a great rush. “I did not realize you would still be dressing. Orla?” He looked at the young woman who had now snapped her
gaze up.

She looked.

That tight feeling very low down in Horace’s abdomen had begun to stir again.

You fool. Stop it.

“I’m here, Uncle.” She turned her eyes demurely away and moved to his side.

“Wait, assistant?” Horace held up a hand, staring at the woman wide eyed. “Byrne, you did not say the assistant you were
bringing to help you was a woman?”

“Did I not?” Mr. Byrne looked between the pair of them, his cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. Then he shrugged. “She
is excellent, my lord. I have never met another like her with her acumen when it comes to the way a body works.”

Horace moved away. He grasped a waistcoat and pulled it sharply over his shoulders, hastening with a cravat too. The sudden
movement made him dizzy, and he latched a hand onto the top of the bureau, breathing deeply, before moving again.

Hearing that the young woman was good with the way a body worked was hardly helping his wild imaginings of her.

They are not decent.

“Perhaps the baron thinks a physician needs something other than a brain to be able to work in this field.” The woman’s words
made him freeze.
Wit too, eh?

He turned slowly on the spot to face her. There was challenge in those large eyes, eyes that he now saw were a rich shade of
brown, the color of cocoa powder.

“Orla,” Mr. Byrne hissed quietly.

“An unusual name,” Horace observed, the words slipping from his lips before he could stop them. She turned her head to the
leather satchel and pulled some things out. As with the day before, just one loose lock of long hair had escaped her updo and
teased the curve of her neck. He imagined trailing his fingers through that lock, pushing it aside, and placing his lips to the bare
skin.

Stop it, you fool.

He moved to the nearest chair and sat down fast. It had been so long since he had felt anything akin to attraction that the sudden
power of it was alarming. He needed to hide his body at once from view, in case his length stood to attention before her.

“I am Irish by birth, my lord,” she went on.

“Now, you know what to do,” Mr. Byrne said hurriedly to Orla. Once more, he seemed in a hurry. “As long as you have no
objections to my niece, my lord? I assure you; she is excellent. There is no one better to take care of you in my absence.”

“Absence? Where are you going?” Horace asked. If he’d had the strength, he would have leaned forward in his surprise, but
dressing so fast had drained him of energy.

“To town. The news of my attendance to you seems to have spread, and I have many new enquiries for my help.”

“Ah, I see.” Horace scratched the back of his neck, pushing away his long copper hair. “It would seem everyone is benefitting
from my illness, except myself.” The attempt at lightening the air was futile, yet Mr. Byrne laughed all the same.

Orla did not. She continued to stare at him with boldness in her gaze. She did not look away as many servants would have done
under his look.

Do not make me like you all the more, Miss Orla. I am attracted enough as it is.

He thought of those eyes looking up at him, with her on her knees before him. He had to shift in his seat once again.

“Are you happy with Orla’s attendance, my lord?” Mr. Byrne asked with more care this time. “If you wish me to stay in her
place, I will.”

Horace had many words he wished to say. There would have been a time when he would have been outraged by the deception,
for Mr. Byrne had most definitely never mentioned that the assistant he wished to bring into this house would be a woman.
Horace would have been sharp tongued and offered a few choice words at the evasion, but what would be the point now?
It would serve no one to be angry, and he did not have the energy for the outburst.

Besides, at least she will be a fairer face to look at than Mr. Byrne.

“You go, Byrne.” He waved a hand. “If she is as excellent as you claim she is, then I am sure we will have no problem.”

Orla placed her hands on her hips. There was outrage in her expression, but it did not help matters. The eyes wild, the anger
palpable, he longed to draw her toward him, and make that angry look soften.

“Very well, I shall leave you two alone, then. Good day, my Lord.” Mr. Byrne bowed and left the room, leaving the pair of
them quite isolated together.
Chapter 3

Orla waited until the door closed behind her Uncle Colm. Then she acted swiftly. Turning to her leather case on the dresser,
she pulled it out, open wide, reached in and took out the book she had taken to dinner the night before in order to make some
notes on the baron’s condition.

Yet Colm had been cagey with details, seeming much more interested in talking to her about other things the night before. Her
handwriting, squiggly like spiders across the page, left her with little help.

“Well?” the baron’s voice sounded cool in the dusky light of the room. “What miracles has a lady got for me?”

“Do you treat all of your healers in this vein?” she asked, refusing to look at him as she marched across the room.

One look was enough. The pale and translucent skin of the baron was oddly attractive, not to mention the long copper hair that
almost reached his shoulders. The face, as if carved out of marble, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, was alarming in its power
over her.

I shall not look again. I will not be controlled by the handsome eyes of a baron.

“I beg your pardon?” he said sharply, clearly startled by her tone.

“Do you always live like an invalid?” She stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips, looking about the space.

Errant vials had been discarded everywhere, evidently the left over the medicine that her uncle had given him and no one had
bothered to tidy it away. She wrinkled her nose in surprise, for the rest of the house was tidy. She imagined the maids were no
longer permitted in here to tidy away.

It was also dark, the curtains drawn across, and the fire grate full of roaring flames.

“In case your uncle did not inform you, Miss Byrne, I am an invalid.”

“You have legs, do you not?” She turned to face him, giving into weakness at last.

That gaze…

It was intense, those eyes unrelenting on her.

“I have seen invalids without legs who still drag themselves out of bed every day. I have seen men too without arms, who insist
on caring for themselves.”

“I feel as if your wit is trying to draw me to a conclusion. Would you do me the favor, Miss Byrne, of just getting to this point,”
he said, somewhat wryly.
“Locking oneself away in a chamber, in the dark, must do nothing for this.” She tapped the side of her head.

“My mind?” he whispered and shifted in his seat. It was the first time he hadn’t yet spoken sharply to her.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about this.” She hurried forward and grabbed the curtains, drawing them back from the
window to flood the room with morning light. In the corner of the room, the baron winced. “Are you a vampire, my lord? Do
you fear the light?”

“Do you have any respect at all? Or do you talk to all your patients in this way?”

“Any patient who thinks because I am a woman, I cannot treat them… perhaps,” she murmured with a small smile, reaching for
the window and opening it a crack.

“It’s cold out there.” His voice was deep and sharper than before.

“And it’s also fresh. Ten minutes alone will help circle the air in here. It has a smell.” She looked uncertainly at the vials. “I
see my uncle gives you laudanum.” Abruptly, she tidied the vials away. “Well, my lord, perhaps we should proceed with you
telling me your symptoms.”

“I thought you were an assistant. Miss Byrne, simply administer the laudanum your uncle has sent you here to do.” He held his
hand out toward her. “Then be gone.”

She stiffened in the middle of the room, her arms full of the empty vials as she turned to face him.

“I see you and I will not be easy with one another,” she murmured gently. He lifted an eyebrow, as if agreeing, then his eyes
wandered. The moment he looked down at her, her stomach clenched in surprise.

This time, it was not a disparaging look. Far from it. There was curiosity, even heat in that look, which contradicted the now
chilly breeze filling the room.

“Raise your eyes, my lord,” she said sharply.

His eyes snapped back to hers, now narrowing.

“I was examining the woman who is to be my healer. That is all.”

Was it?

She returned to tidying away the vials, uncertain why her stomach clenched all the more. Was she disappointed that was the
only way he was looking at her? Surely not! Why would she want such a proud and arrogant man to like the look of her?

“Please, give me the laudanum and be gone.” He waved a hand at her once more. “It clearly does neither of us any good to be
in one another’s company for long.”
She dropped the vials into a bag and moved them aside, then shifted her focus to her leather bag. Reluctantly, she poured out a
fresh dose of laudanum, but kept glancing toward him repeatedly.

“Lethargy?” she asked.

“Every day,” he answered, not looking at her but into the fire now.

“A struggle to get out of bed, is it?”

“What was your first clue?” He gestured to the small distance between him and the bed.

“Foul tempered?”

“Is that a symptom or a personality trait you’re looking for now?” he asked.

She smiled a little. There was something amusing in needling him in such a way. He shifted, apparently shocked she had smiled
at all.

“May I ask something more, before I give this to you?” she asked, moving to sit beside him with the laudanum in his hands. He
was reaching for it, almost grasping for it like a baby reaching for a teething rattle. “My Lord?” Her voice softened now, and
amazingly, this made him stiffen. “Please, let me ask you something.”

He relented, sitting back and nodding curtly once, though his eyes remained on the vial in her hands.

“What were your first ever symptoms?”

“Very different to now,” he said slowly. “It was nausea, pure and simple. It changed over time. These days…” he gestured to
himself. “I am a husk of the man I was. As if I am a nut that was shelled, and I am simply the empty shell left behind.” He spoke
without looking at her, but into the fire, then abruptly leaned forward and snatched the laudanum from her, lifting it to his lips
and downing it in one gulp.

“Pain?” she asked.

“Constantly.”

“Where?”

“Here.” He rubbed his temples as he lowered the vial, practically smacking those thin and handsome lips.

He’s addicted to the laudanum.

She took the empty vial back from him, not intending to leave it on the dresser as so many had done before.
I need to help him.

As he sat back in his chair, resting his head on the rest, waiting for the laudanum to take effect, something stirred in her gut.
There was a sympathy there, and perhaps a fear too. No matter what this man was like in countenance or personality, he was
now addicted to laudanum. That would have to change if he was ever going to recover.

“I think…” she trailed off as he lifted his head, looking at her again. Perhaps now was not the time to tell him that a long-term
dependency on laudanum was no wise thing. “I think I will leave you for now,” she changed tact. “I will return shortly to see
what more we can do.” She nodded at the window. “Leave it open a little while longer, my lord. The fresh air is good for you.”

“Would you have me freeze to death in this room?”

“Pah!” She couldn’t help laughing and nodded at the ostentatiously large hearth beside him. “I have seen men and women cope
with the most horrific sicknesses, with a fire no bigger than a candle to keep them company in winter. Surely, a man in your
position appreciates the large fire he is so fortunate to have?” She thrust the vial back into her bag, not looking at him now.

His handsomeness was a distraction. This weird attraction making her even more argumentative than normal.

“I shall leave you now.”

“Good. You will return later for my next dose.”

“As you wish,” she said reluctantly and left as swiftly as she could. Once she was out of the door, she leaned upon the wood
and closed her eyes, cursing at the image of Baron De Rees there that appeared in the darkness. “That is so inconvenient,” she
whispered into the air.

***

Orla’s heart still hammered against her chest as she hurried down two sets of stairs toward the servants’ quarters, ready for
breakfast. In the large kitchen, the staff were gathered around the two tables which had been prepared for them. Esther
beckoned her across with an eager wave of her hand, as beside her sat George, the groom which had greeted Orla on arrival.

“Well? How are you this morning?” Esther asked eagerly as Orla sat down beside her. “You will not leave us already, will
you?”

“Already? Ha! I would be scared like a little mouse if one meeting from the baron would frighten me off so easily.”

“You would not be the first,” George explained with a mouth full of toast, gesturing for her to help herself from the middle of
the table as the staff all fell into separate conversations around the table. “Not many people can stand Baron De Rees’ temper,
though don’t tell the butler I said that,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper. “He’d have my guts quite literally for garters if he
heard.”

“Him in garters?” Esther giggled at the idea. “Mr. Kennedy has a preoccupation with doing the right thing, of following the
hierarchy,” she explained in a rush. “I do not imagine a woman healer pleases him greatly.”
Orla glanced toward the butler that sat at the head of the table, as if he was king of this domain. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes,
but looked over their heads, as if judging them all and if they came up to scratch.

“So, you will stay?” Esther asked eagerly.

“Of course. There is much work to be done.” Orla nodded as she helped herself to a healthy serving of toast and tea.

“You ask her,” George murmured, elbowing Esther.

“You do it,” Esther urged.

The way the pair of them were sat quite close together suggested an intimacy to Orla. Then she noticed that neither of them
looked one another in the eye, and she wondered if it was her imagination.

“You,” George urged again. “It’s not my place to pry.”

“Yet I sense you are both about to,” Orla said with a laugh. “Feel fry to pry away. What is it you would both like to know?”

George and Esther exchanged what appeared to be quite a worried glance, then Esther leaned forward and whispered in Orla’s
ear.

“The baron,” she murmured, before pausing uneasily, “he was not forward with you, was he? He did not take liberties?”

“Liberties!” Orla repeated, only for Esther to step on her foot under the bench table to quieten her. “Ow.”

Mr. Kennedy glanced her way from the head of the table, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, but he said nothing more.

“No. What on earth made you ask that?” Orla looked between Esther and George.

“Well, it is the way the baron is.”

“Was,” George corrected around another bite of toast. “Before he fell ill, there was an entire troop of pretty women in these
halls.”

“George, you know we shouldn’t say such things,” Esther said softly. He offered an apologetic smile and shrugged.

“I know, but we wanted to be sure she was safe all the same, didn’t we?” He nodded at Orla. “Apologies for our nosiness, but
you’re a pretty girl. We feared he would be… you know.”

“I see.” Orla had quite lost interest in her toast now.

She was thinking of the baron upstairs and the idea that he would take liberties with any woman when he seemed so sharp of
manner and sickly.
“What did he used to be like before he fell ill?” Orla pleaded with Esther in a whisper.

“Oh, voracious,” she said with a giggle. “He was quite the charmer, dashing indeed, a dapper gentleman. Not a dandy, you
understand, for he was never so flippant of manner, but handsome and deeply…” She sighed, making George frown beside her.

“Esther,” he said in a deep tone.

“I was never charmed by him,” she murmured hurriedly, her cheeks blushing red, though George continued to stare at her.

Is that a hint of jealousy I see before me?

Yet Orla kept the thought to herself.

“He is the owner of a large textile company in the city,” Esther began to explain. “He was the apple of everyone’s eye in the
city. Athletic, a fine rider, and a charming socialite. There were balls and parties in this house every week.

After his grand tour across Europe, he returned home, and it was presumed he must have caught a sickness from abroad,
because he was confined to his chamber shortly after. He became a hermit, a recluse, and the man that was once so treasured
and adored by the ton became resented for avarice.”

“Avarice? Why?”

“You know Godly men.” George rolled his eyes with these words. “They say a man’s sickness must be a punishment from God.
That was five years ago now. The man had scarcely been out of that room or this house since.”

“God’s wounds,” Orla muttered under her breath.

She didn’t know what to think of first.

There was the idea that Baron De Rees had once been a charmer, perhaps a rake, and for some reason, she found the idea
greatly exciting. She considered the way he had snatched the vial from her hands, the way their fingers had brushed upon the
glass, then imagined him taking her hand in quite a different way.

Such warmth spread through her at the idea, such excitement, that she bit her lip as her heart began to hammer in her chest again
at the mere thought.

She could hardly be a healer and not know what could happen between men and women when alone together in bedchambers.
She knew very well what they could share. The notion that Baron De Rees had experience of such things and could introduce a
lady to what they were had her shivering now.

“Are you cold?” Esther asked. “The fire is not particularly large in here. I could add another log to it?”
“No, no, do not worry yourself,” Orla said quickly, fearing that someone would realize her shiver was not from the cold at all,
but curiosity about Baron De Rees’ touch. “Has any other healer attended the baron in all that time other than my uncle?”

In unison, George and Esther shook their heads.

“He’s quite devoted to Mr. Byrne,” Esther explained.

“He is better than he was,” George said quietly, “so your uncle must be doing some good.”

“Hmm.” Esther would not disparage her uncle’s skills. He was an accomplished physician and surgeon indeed, highly
knowledgeable about chemicals, and she owed him great friendship and loyalty for all the help he had given her in her own
training. Yet, there was something that niggled her.

She had glimpsed once before how her uncle was dependent on older methods of healing, sometimes cleaving to medicinal
books which had been written many years ago. He had a tendency to reject modern methods and new scientific books, which
suggested alternative ways of healing. He was suspicious of them all, saying such methods hadn’t been tried and tested yet.

“You are thinking something,” Esther said, nodding at Orla with a butter knife. “Very intently. What thought has captivated you
so?”

“Just that I feel a little sorry for the baron.”

“Ha!” George promptly tried to cover up his bark of laughter with a hacking cough.

“Oh, so smoothly done,” Orla said wryly as Esther blushed red and clapped him on the back again. “You have little liking for
your master?”

“He may not be my favorite man in the world,” George murmured, shrugging. “But no, I would not wish his sickness on any
man.”

“I also wonder…” Orla trailed off, staring down at her plate, though her eyes were unfocused. In her mind, she wasn’t at this
table, but back in the baron’s chamber with him, thrusting aside the curtains as he shrank away from the sunlight. “It is no way
to live. Perhaps with a little help, I could encourage the baron to live his life properly again.”

“I like her,” Esther said suddenly to George at her side.

“You like anyone good hearted.” He tutted, tiredly.

“You make that seem like a bad thing!”

“It is not a bad thing.” He shook his head, then his eyes flicked toward Orla. “Be careful, Miss Byrne. You might find the baron
is not particularly keen on being saved.”

Orla lifted her teacup to her lips and took a large gulp, her mind made up. She was here for a reason, and whether Baron De
Rees and his foul temper wanted to be saved or not, she still had to try.
Chapter 4

Horace lost himself in the darkness of Macbeth, reading the woes and shadows that plagued the man. He was so lost in the
world, closeted in his library, he did not notice that the door had opened.

“Horace?” a familiar voice called to him.

Horace lifted his head. He saw Mr. Kennedy leaving swiftly, having shown Walter into the chamber. Walter, no longer bearing
the purple face and angry lines of their argument from two days before, was now soft in manner, creeping into the room.

“Am I so terrifying, old friend, that you look ready to run at any minute?” Horace asked.

“Well, they tell me you broke some more stuff after I left.”

“I did.” Horace closed up his book and rested it in his lap. He should rise to greet his friend, but he felt greatly dizzy this
morning, and the mere prospect was a difficult one. So, instead, he inclined his head in greeting and gestured for Waler to come
further into the room. “Have you come to resume our argument?”

“No, far from it.” Walter hurried forward. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his cheeks turning pink again as he took the chair
opposite of Horace and sat down. Then he blinked and looked around the library. “This room is usually so dark. What
happened here?”

“Ah, that would be my healer’s doing.” Horace chose not to mention her by name.

When he’d woken that morning, waiting for his laudanum, Miss Orla Byrne had insisted he leave his chamber. Wordlessly, he’d
come to the library, not wanting another argument between them. He decided the sooner he did her bidding, the sooner she
would walk away and he wouldn’t be distracted by his desire for her. She’d come in, flung open all the shutters that were
usually closed, meaning the six long windows in this room now flooded the space with a grey light from the frosty day outside.

“It’s nice,” Walter mused, then shifted his focus back to Horace, who sat uncomfortably in his large armchair beside the fire,
with large mahogany shelves behind him full of stacks of books. “I’m sorry about our argument, and I’m sorry for what I did. I
hope you believe me when I tell you I made the investment with your best interest at heart.”

Horace shifted in his seat. He wished to be angry at Walter, to demand why he was not consulted, but he did not have the
energy today to have another argument. He slumped in his chair, feeling an envy curl in his gut for his friend.

Walter could go where he wished to and have what meetings he wished to as well, entertain himself with other people's
company and feel free to invest his money where Horace could not. Sometimes, he didn’t even have the energy to read the
business contracts Walter left behind after his visits.

“I know,” Horace relented eventually. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too. My temper…” He paused and rubbed his temples.
“Sometimes it seems I cannot control it.”

“You have never been great at controlling such a thing,” Walter said in clear jest with a smile.
It broke Horace’s last bout of iciness. He laughed with his friend and they smiled at one another, once again the close friends
they had been.

“I am glad you accept my apology,” Walter said hurriedly. “And I will not make such an investment again without your
approval.”

“Thank you.” Yet Horace was uneasy with the words. Could he truly trust Walter not to do such a thing again?

“Now, for the true reason I have come here today.” Walter shifted forward in his chair.

“Which is?”

“I have made progress with the investment you wished us to make. I have purchased that milliner’s shop in London we spoke
of.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some paperwork, handing it to Horace.

“You did?” Horace felt excitement ripple through him. He discarded his book beside him and opened the papers in his lap,
looking through them swiftly. Yet the sheer effort of moving his arms so much made him tired again, and he grunted under his
breath in irritation.

“You are not pleased?”

“No, no, I am. Thank you, Walter. This is what we needed for our business endeavors.” Yet that jealousy curled in his gut once
more. How he had longed to go to London and see the shop for himself first, but such a trip would have been completely out of
the question.

“Now, there is one other thing we must speak of—” Yet Walter broke off as there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” Horace said to the door.

It opened and in walked Orla.

Startled, Horace stared at her, for he had been expecting a maid to rebuild the fire. She swept into the room fast, carrying a tray
of what appeared to be hot, steaming tea. When she reached the table beside him, she picked up the book from it, read the title,
and smiled a little, then returned it to a shelf and used the table to place the tea upon it.

“What is this?” he said with a wrinkled nose, noting at once that the tea was not normal. The scent that wafted from it was
different, and incredibly fragrant.

“Tea. You know, my Lord. Tea leaves with hot water upon it.”

“Your dryness does not help matters, Miss Byrne.”

“Your objections do not help either.”

Another random document with
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the foundation is a very good one, but as I have generally allowed
people to call me what they have pleased, and as there is nothing
necessarily dishonorable in this, I have never taken the pains to
dispute its application and propriety; and yet I confess that I am never
so spoken of without feeling a trifle uncomfortable—about as much so
as when I am called, as I sometimes am, the Rev. Frederick Douglass.
My stay in this legislative body was of short duration. My vocation
abroad left me little time to study the many matters of local legislation;
hence my resignation, and the appointment of my son Lewis to fill out
my term.
I have thus far told my story without copious quotations from my
letters, speeches, or other writings, and shall not depart from this rule
in what remains to be told, except to insert here my speech, delivered
at Arlington, near the monument to the “Unknown Loyal Dead,” on
Decoration Day, 1871. It was delivered under impressive
circumstances, in presence of President Grant, his Cabinet, and a
great multitude of distinguished people, and expresses, as I think, the
true view which should be taken of the great conflict between slavery
and freedom to which it refers.

“Friends and Fellow Citizens: Tarry here for a moment. My

words shall be few and simple. The solemn rites of this hour and
place call for no lengthened speech. There is in the very air of this
resting ground of the unknown dead a silent, subtle, and an all-
pervading eloquence, far more touching, impressive, and thrilling
than living lips have ever uttered. Into the measureless depths of
every loyal soul it is now whispering lessons of all that is precious,
priceless, holiest, and most enduring in human existence.
“Dark and sad will be the hour to this nation when it forgets to
pay grateful homage to its greatest benefactors. The offering we
bring to-day is due alike to the patriot soldiers dead and their noble
comrades who still live; for whether living or dead, whether in time
or eternity, the loyal soldiers who imperiled all for country and
freedom are one and inseparable.
“Those unknown heroes whose whitened bones have been
piously gathered here, and whose green graves we now strew with
sweet and beautiful flowers, choice emblems alike of pure hearts
and brave spirits, reached in their glorious career that last highest
point of nobleness beyond which human power cannot go. They
died for their country.
“No loftier tribute can be paid to the most illustrious of all the
benefactors of mankind than we pay to these unrecognized
soldiers, when we write above their graves this shining epitaph.
“When the dark and vengeful spirit of slavery, always
ambitious, preferring to rule in hell than to serve in heaven, fired
the Southern heart and stirred all the malign elements of discord;
when our great Republic, the hope of freedom and self-
government throughout the world, had reached the point of
supreme peril; when the Union of these States was torn and rent
asunder at the center, and the armies of a gigantic rebellion came
forth with broad blades and bloody hands to destroy the very
foundation of American society, the unknown braves who flung
themselves into the yawning chasm, where cannon roared and
bullets whistled, fought and fell. They died for their country.
“We are sometimes asked, in the name of patriotism, to forget
the merits of this fearful struggle, and to remember with equal
admiration those who struck at the nation’s life and those who
struck to save it,—those who fought for slavery and those who
fought for liberty and justice.
“I am no minister of malice. I would not strike the fallen. I
would not repel the repentant, but may my “right hand forget her
cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth,” if I forget
the difference between the parties to that terrible, protracted, and
bloody conflict.
“If we ought to forget a war which has filled our land with
widows and orphans, which has made stumps of men of the very
flower of our youth; sent them on the journey of life armless,
legless, maimed and mutilated; which has piled up a debt heavier
than a mountain of gold—swept uncounted thousands of men into
bloody graves, and planted agony at a million hearthstones; I say
if this war is to be forgotten, I ask in the name of all things sacred
what shall men remember?
 “The essence and significance of our devotions here to-day
are not to be found in the fact that the men whose remains fill
these graves were brave in battle. If we met simply to show our
sense of bravery, we should find enough to kindle admiration on
both sides. In the raging storm of fire and blood, in the fierce
torrent of shot and shell, of sword and bayonet, whether on foot or
on horse, unflinching courage marked the rebel not less than the
loyal soldier.
“But we are not here to applaud manly courage, save as it has
been displayed in a noble cause. We must never forget that victory
to the rebellion meant death to the republic. We must never forget
that the loyal soldiers who rest beneath this sod flung themselves
between the nation and the nation’s destroyers. If to-day we have
a country not boiling in an agony of blood like France; if now we
have a united country, no longer cursed by the hell-black system
of human bondage; if the American name is no longer a by-word
and a hissing to a mocking earth; if the star spangled banner floats
only over free American citizens in every quarter of the land, and
our country has before it a long and glorious career of justice,
liberty, and civilization, we are indebted to the unselfish devotion of
the noble army who rest in these honored graves all around us.”

In the month of April, 1872, I had the honor to attend and preside
over a National Convention of colored citizens, held in New Orleans. It
was a critical period in the history of the Republican party, as well as in
that of the country. Eminent men who had hitherto been looked upon
as the pillars of Republicanism had become dissatisfied with President
Grant’s administration, and determined to defeat his nomination for a
second term. The leaders in this unfortunate revolt were Messrs.
Trumbull, Schurz, Greeley, and Sumner. Mr. Schurz had already
succeeded in destroying the Republican party in the State of Missouri,
and it seemed to be his ambition to be the founder of a new party, and
to him more than to any other man belongs the credit of what was
once known as the Liberal Republican party which made Horace
Greeley its standard bearer in the campaign of that year.
At the time of the Convention in New Orleans the elements of this
new combination were just coming together. The division in the
Republican ranks seemed to be growing deeper and broader every
day. The colored people of the country were much affected by the
threatened disruption, and their leaders were much divided as to the
side upon which they should give their voice and their votes. The
names of Greeley and Sumner, on account of their long and earnest
advocacy of justice and liberty to the blacks, had powerful attractions
for the newly enfranchised class; and there was in this Convention at
New Orleans naturally enough a strong disposition to fraternize with
the new party and follow the lead of their old friends. Against this policy
I exerted whatever influence I possessed, and, I think, succeeded in
holding back that Convention from what I felt sure then would have
been a fatal political blunder, and time has proved the correctness of
that position. My speech on taking the chair on that occasion was
telegraphed from New Orleans in full to the New York Herald, and the
key-note of it was that there was no path out of the Republican party
that did not lead directly into the Democratic party—away from our
friends and directly to our enemies. Happily this Convention pretty
largely agreed with me, and its members have not since regretted that
agreement.
From this Convention onward, until the nomination and election of
Grant and Wilson, I was actively engaged on the stump, a part of the
time in Virginia with Hon. Henry Wilson, in North Carolina with John M.
Longston and John H. Smyth, and in the State of Maine with Senator
Hamlin, Gen. B. F. Butler, Gen. Woodford, and Hon. James G. Blaine.
Since 1872 I have been regularly what my old friend Parker
Pillsbury would call a “field hand” in every important political campaign,
and at each National Convention have sided with what has been called
the stalwart element of the Republican party. It was in the Grant
Presidential campaign that New York took an advanced step in the
renunciation of a timid policy. The Republicans of that State not having
the fear of popular prejudice before their eyes placed my name as an
Elector at large at the head of their Presidential ticket. Considering the
deep-rooted sentiment of the masses against negroes, the noise and
tumult likely to be raised, especially among our adopted citizens of
Irish descent, this was a bold and manly proceeding, and one for which
the Republicans of the State of New York deserve the gratitude of
every colored citizen of the Republic, for it was a blow at popular
prejudice in a quarter where it was capable of making the strongest
resistance. The result proved not only the justice and generosity of the
measure, but its wisdom. The Republicans carried the State by a
majority of fifty thousand over the heads of the Liberal Republican and
the Democratic parties combined.
Equally significant of the turn now taken in the political sentiment of
the country, was the action of the Republican Electoral College at its
meeting in Albany, when it committed to my custody the sealed up
electoral vote of the great State of New York, and commissioned me to
bring that vote to the National Capital. Only a few years before, any
colored man was forbidden by law to carry a United States mail bag
from one post-office to another. He was not allowed to touch the
sacred leather, though locked in “triple steel,” but now, not a mail bag,
but a document which was to decide the Presidential question with all
its momentous interests, was committed to the hands of one of this
despised class; and around him, in the execution of his high trust, was
thrown all the safeguards provided by the Constitution and the laws of
the land. Though I worked hard and long to secure the nomination and
the election of Gen. Grant in 1872, I neither received nor sought office
under him. He was my choice upon grounds altogether free from
selfish or personal considerations. I supported him because he had
done all, and would do all, he could to save not only the country from
ruin, but the emancipated class from oppression and ultimate
destruction; and because Mr. Greeley, with the Democratic party
behind him, would not have the power, even if he had the disposition,
to afford us the needed protection which our peculiar condition
required. I could easily have secured the appointment as Minister to
Hayti, but preferred to urge the claims of my friend, Ebenezer Bassett,
a gentleman and a scholar, and a man well fitted by his good sense
and amiable qualities to fill the position with credit to himself and his
country. It is with a certain degree of pride that I am able to say that my
opinion of the wisdom of sending Mr. Bassett to Hayti has been fully
justified by the creditable manner in which, for eight years, he
discharged the difficult duties of that position; for I have the assurance
of Hon. Hamilton Fish, Secretary of State of the United States, that Mr.
Bassett was a good Minister. In so many words, the ex-Secretary told
me, that he “wished that one-half of his ministers abroad performed
their duties as well as Mr. Bassett.” To those who knew Hon. Hamilton
Fish, this compliment will not be deemed slight, for few men are less
given to exaggeration and are more scrupulously exact in the
observance of law, and in the use of language, than is that gentleman.
While speaking in this strain of complacency in reference to Mr.
Bassett, I take pleasure also in bearing my testimony based upon
knowledge obtained at the State Department, that Mr. John Mercer
Langston, the present Minister to Hayti, has acquitted himself with
equal wisdom and ability to that of Mr. Bassett in the same position.
Having known both these gentlemen in their youth, when the one was
at Yale, and the other at Oberlin College, and witnessed their efforts to
qualify themselves for positions of usefulness, it has afforded me no
limited satisfaction to see them rise in the world. Such men increase
the faith of all in the possibilities of their race, and make it easier for
those who are to come after them.
The unveiling of Lincoln Monument in Lincoln Park, Washington,
April 14th, 1876, and the part taken by me in the ceremonies of that
grand occasion, takes rank among the most interesting incidents of my
life, since it brought me into mental communication with a greater
number of the influential and distinguished men of the country than any
I had before known. There were present the President of the United
States and his Cabinet, Judges of the Supreme Court, the Senate and
House of Representatives, and many thousands of citizens to listen to
my address upon the illustrious man in whose memory the colored
people of the United States had, as a mark of their gratitude, erected
that impressive monument. Occasions like this have done wonders in
the removal of popular prejudice, and in lifting into consideration the
colored race; and I reckon it one of the high privileges of my life, that I
was permitted to have a share in this and several other like
celebrations.
The progress of a nation is sometimes indicated by small things.
When Henry Wilson, an honored Senator and Vice-President of the
United States, died in the capitol of the nation, it was a significant and
telling indication of national advance, when three colored citizens, Mr.
Robert Purvis, Mr. James Wormley, and myself, were selected with the
Senate committee, to accompany his honored remains from
Washington to the grand old commonwealth he loved so well, and
whom in turn she had so greatly loved and honored. It was meet and
right that we should be represented in the long procession that met
those remains in every State between here and Massachusetts, for
Henry Wilson was among the foremost friends of the colored race in
this country, and this was the first time in its history when a colored
man was made a pall-bearer at the funeral, as I was in this instance, of
a Vice-President of the United States.
An appointment to any important and lucrative office under the
United States government, usually brings its recipient a large measure
of praise and congratulation on the one hand, and much abuse and
disparagement on the other; and he may think himself singularly
fortunate if the censure does not exceed the praise. I need not dwell
upon the causes of this extravagance, but I may say there is no office
of any value in the country which is not desired and sought by many
persons equally meritorious and equally deserving. But as only one
person can be appointed to any one office, only one can be pleased,
while many are offended; unhappily, resentment follows
disappointment, and this resentment often finds expression in
disparagement and abuse of the successful man. As in most else I
have said, I borrow this reflection from my own experience.
My appointment as United States Marshal of the District of
Columbia, was in keeping with the rest of my life, as a freeman. It was
an innovation upon long established usage, and opposed to the
general current of sentiment in the community. It came upon the
people of the District as a gross surprise, and almost a punishment;
and provoked something like a scream—I will not say a yell—of
popular displeasure. As soon as I was named by President Hayes for
the place, efforts were made by members of the bar to defeat my
confirmation before the Senate. All sorts of reasons against my
appointment, but the true one, were given, and that was withheld more
from a sense of shame, than from a sense of justice. The
apprehension doubtless was, that if appointed marshal, I would
surround myself with colored deputies, colored bailiffs, colored
messengers, and pack the jury box with colored jurors; in a word,
Africanize the courts. But the most dreadful thing threatened, was a
colored man at the Executive Mansion in white kid gloves, sparrow-
tailed coat, patent leather boots, and alabaster cravat, performing the
ceremony—a very empty one—of introducing the aristocratic citizens
of the republic to the President of the United States. This was
something entirely too much to be borne; and men asked themselves
in view of it, to what is the world coming? and where will these things
stop? Dreadful! Dreadful!
It is creditable to the manliness of the American Senate, that it was
moved by none of these things, and that it lost no time in the matter of
my confirmation. I learn, and believe my information correct, that
foremost among those who supported my confirmation against the
objections made to it, was Hon. Roscoe Conkling of New York. His
speech in executive session is said by the senators who heard it, to
have been one of the most masterly and eloquent ever delivered on
the floor of the Senate; and this too I readily believe, for Mr. Conkling
possesses the ardor and fire of Henry Clay, the subtlety of Calhoun,
and the massive grandeur of Daniel Webster.
The effort to prevent my confirmation having failed, nothing could
be done but to wait for some overt act to justify my removal; and for
this my unfriends had not long to wait. In the course of one or two
months I was invited by a number of citizens of Baltimore to deliver a
lecture in that city in Douglass Hall—a building named in honor of
myself, and devoted to educational purposes. With this invitation I
complied, giving the same lecture which I had two years before
delivered in the city of Washington, and which was at the time
published in full in the newspapers, and very highly commended by
them. The subject of the lecture was, “Our National Capital,” and in it I
said many complimentary things of the city, which were as true as they
were complimentary. I spoke of what it had been in the past, what it
was at that time, and what I thought it destined to become in the future;
giving it all credit for its good points, and calling attention to some of its
ridiculous features. For this I got myself pretty roughly handled. The
newspapers worked themselves up to a frenzy of passion, and
committees were appointed to procure names to a petition to President
Hayes demanding my removal. The tide of popular feeling was so
violent, that I deemed it necessary to depart from my usual custom
when assailed, so far as to write the following explanatory letter, from
which the reader will be able to measure the extent and quality of my
offense:
“To the Editor of the Washington Evening Star:
“Sir:—You were mistaken in representing me as being off on a
lecturing tour, and, by implication, neglecting my duties as United
States Marshal of the District of Columbia. My absence from
Washington during two days was due to an invitation by the
managers to be present on the occasion of the inauguration of the
International Exhibition in Philadelphia.
“In complying with this invitation, I found myself in company
with other members of the government who went thither in
obedience to the call of patriotism and civilization. No one interest
of the Marshal’s office suffered by my temporary absence, as I had
seen to it that those upon whom the duties of the office devolved
were honest, capable, industrious, painstaking, and faithful. My
Deputy Marshal is a man every way qualified for his position, and
the citizens of Washington may rest assured that no unfaithful man
will be retained in any position under me. Of course I can have
nothing to say as to my own fitness for the position I hold. You
have a right to say what you please on that point; yet I think it
would be only fair and generous to wait for some dereliction of
duty on my part before I shall be adjudged as incompetent to fill
the place.
“You will allow me to say also that the attacks upon me on
account of the remarks alleged to have been made by me in
Baltimore, strike me as both malicious and silly. Washington is a
great city, not a village nor a hamlet, but the capital of a great
nation, and the manners and habits of its various classes are
proper subjects for presentation and criticism, and I very much
mistake if this great city can be thrown into a tempest of passion
by any humorous reflections I may take the liberty to utter. The city
is too great to be small, and I think it will laugh at the ridiculous
attempt to rouse it to a point of furious hostility to me for any thing
said in my Baltimore lecture.
“Had the reporters of that lecture been as careful to note what
I said in praise of Washington as what I said, if you please, in
disparagement of it, it would have been impossible to awaken any
feeling against me in this community for what I said. It is the
easiest thing in the world, as all editors know, to pervert the
meaning and give a one-sided impression of a whole speech by
simply giving isolated passages from the speech itself, without any
qualifying connections. It would hardly be imagined from anything
that has appeared here that I had said one word in that lecture in
honor of Washington, and yet the lecture itself, as a whole, was
decidedly in the interest of the national capital. I am not such a fool
as to decry a city in which I have invested my money and made
my permanent residence.
“After speaking of the power of the sentiment of patriotism I
held this language: ‘In the spirit of this noble sentiment I would
have the American people view the national capital. It is our
national center. It belongs to us; and whether it is mean or
majestic, whether arrayed in glory or covered with shame, we
cannot but share its character and its destiny. In the remotest
section of the republic, in the most distant parts of the globe, amid
the splendors of Europe or the wilds of Africa, we are still held and
firmly bound to this common center. Under the shadow of Bunker
Hill monument, in the peerless eloquence of his diction, I once
heard the great Daniel Webster give welcome to all American
citizens, assuring them that wherever else they might be
strangers, they were all at home there. The same boundless
welcome is given to all American citizens by Washington.
Elsewhere we may belong to individual States, but here we belong
to the whole United States. Elsewhere we may belong to a
section, but here we belong to a whole country, and the whole
country belongs to us. It is national territory, and the one place
where no American is an intruder or a carpet-bagger. The new
comer is not less at home than the old resident. Under its lofty
domes and stately pillars, as under the broad blue sky, all races
and colors of men stand upon a footing of common equality.
“‘The wealth and magnificence which elsewhere might oppress
the humble citizen has an opposite effect here. They are felt to be
a part of himself and serve to ennoble him in his own eyes. He is
an owner of the marble grandeur which he beholds about him,—as
much so as any of the forty millions of this great nation. Once in
his life every American who can should visit Washington: not as
the Mahometan to Mecca; not as the Catholic to Rome; not as the
Hebrew to Jerusalem, nor as the Chinaman to the Flowery
kingdom, but in the spirit of enlightened patriotism, knowing the
value of free institutions and how to perpetuate and maintain them.
“‘Washington should be contemplated not merely as an
assemblage of fine buildings; not merely as the chosen resort of
the wealth and fashion of the country; not merely as the honored
place where the statesmen of the nation assemble to shape the
policy and frame the laws; not merely as the point at which we are
most visibly touched by the outside world, and where the
diplomatic skill and talent of the old continent meet and match
themselves against those of the new, but as the national flag itself
—a glorious symbol of civil and religious liberty, leading the world
in the race of social science, civilization, and renown.’
“My lecture in Baltimore required more than an hour and a half
for its delivery, and every intelligent reader will see the difficulty of
doing justice to such a speech when it is abbreviated and
compressed into a half or three-quarters of a column. Such
abbreviation and condensation has been resorted to in this
instance. A few stray sentences, called out from their connections,
would be deprived of much of their harshness if presented in the
form and connection in which they were uttered; but I am taking up
too much space, and will close with the last paragraph of the
lecture, as delivered in Baltimore. ‘No city in the broad world has a
higher or more beneficent mission. Among all the great capitals of
the world it is preëminently the capital of free institutions. Its fall
would be a blow to freedom and progress throughout the world.
Let it stand then where it does now stand—where the father of his
country planted it, and where it has stood for more than half a
century; no longer sandwiched between two slave States; no
longer a contradiction to human progress; no longer the hot-bed of
slavery and the slave trade; no longer the home of the duelist, the
gambler, and the assassin; no longer the frantic partisan of one
section of the country against the other; no longer anchored to a
dark and semi-barbarous past, but a redeemed city, beautiful to
the eye and attractive to the heart, a bond of perpetual union, an
angel of peace on earth and good will to men, a common ground
 upon which Americans of all races and colors, all sections, North
and South, may meet and shake hands, not over a chasm of
blood, but over a free, united, and progressive republic.’”

I have already alluded to the fact that much of the opposition to my

appointment to the office of United States Marshal of the District of
Columbia was due to the possibility of my being called to attend
President Hayes at the Executive Mansion upon state occasions, and
having the honor to introduce the guests on such occasions. I now
wish to refer to reproaches liberally showered upon me for holding the
office of Marshal while denied this distinguished honor, and to show
that the complaint against me at this point is not a well founded
complaint.
1st. Because the office of United States Marshal is distinct and
separate and complete in itself, and must be accepted or refused upon
its own merits. If, when offered to any person, its duties are such as he
can properly fulfill, he may very properly accept it; or, if otherwise, he
may as properly refuse it.
2d. Because the duties of the office are clearly and strictly defined
in the law by which it was created; and because nowhere among these
duties is there any mention or intimation that the Marshal may or shall
attend upon the President of the United States at the Executive
Mansion on state occasions.
3d. Because the choice as to who shall have the honor and
privilege of such attendance upon the President belongs exclusively
and reasonably to the President himself, and that therefore no one,
however distinguished, or in whatever office, has any just cause to
complain of the exercise by the President of this right of choice, or
because he is not himself chosen.
In view of these propositions, which I hold to be indisputable, I
should have presented to the country a most foolish and ridiculous
figure had I, as absurdly counseled by some of my colored friends,
resigned the office of Marshal of the District of Columbia, because
President Rutherford B. Hayes, for reasons that must have been
satisfactory to his judgment, preferred some person other than myself
to attend upon him at the Executive Mansion and perform the
ceremony of introduction on state occasions. But it was said, that this
statement did not cover the whole ground; that it was customary for the
United States Marshal of the District of Columbia to perform this social
office; and that the usage had come to have almost the force of law. I
met this at the time, and I meet it now by denying the binding force of
this custom. No former President has any right or power to make his
example the rule for his successor. The custom of inviting the Marshal
to do this duty was made by a President, and could be as properly
unmade by a President. Besides, the usage is altogether a modern
one, and had its origin in peculiar circumstances, and was justified by
those circumstances. It was introduced in time of war by President
Lincoln when he made his old law partner and intimate acquaintance
Marshal of the District, and was continued by Gen. Grant when he
appointed a relative of his, Gen. Sharp, to the same office. But again it
was said that President Hayes only departed from this custom
because the Marshal in my case was a colored man. The answer I
made to this, and now make to it, is, that it is a gratuitous assumption
and entirely begs the question. It may or may not be true that my
complexion was the cause of this departure, but no man has any right
to assume that position in advance of a plain declaration to that effect
by President Hayes himself. Never have I heard from him any such
declaration or intimation. In so far as my intercourse with him is
concerned, I can say that I at no time discovered in him a feeling of
aversion to me on account of my complexion, or on any other account,
and, unless I am greatly deceived, I was ever a welcome visitor at the
Executive Mansion on state occasions and all others, while Rutherford
B. Hayes was President of the United States. I have further to say that
I have many times during his administration had the honor to introduce
distinguished strangers to him, both of native and foreign birth, and
never had reason to feel myself slighted by himself or his amiable wife;
and I think he would be a very unreasonable man who could desire for
himself, or for any other, a larger measure of respect and consideration
than this at the hands of a man and woman occupying the exalted
positions of Mr. and Mrs. Hayes.
I should not do entire justice to the Honorable ex-President if I did
not bear additional testimony to his noble and generous spirit. When all
Washington was in an uproar, and a wild clamor rent the air for my
removal from the office of Marshal on account of the lecture delivered
by me in Baltimore, when petitions were flowing in upon him
demanding my degradation, he nobly rebuked the mad spirit of
persecution by openly declaring his purpose to retain me in my place.
One other word. During the tumult raised against me in
consequence of this lecture on the “National Capital,” Mr. Columbus
Alexander, one of the old and wealthy citizens of Washington, who was
on my bond for twenty thousand dollars, was repeatedly besought to
withdraw his name, and thus leave me disqualified; but like the
President, both he and my other bondsman, Mr. George Hill, Jr., were
steadfast and immovable. I was not surprised that Mr. Hill stood
bravely by me, for he was a Republican; but I was surprised and
gratified that Mr. Alexander, a Democrat, and, I believe, once a
slaveholder, had not only the courage, but the magnanimity to give me
fair play in this fight. What I have said of these gentlemen, can be
extended to very few others in this community, during that period of
excitement, among either the white or colored citizens, for, with the
exception of Dr. Charles B. Purvis, no colored man in the city uttered
one public word in defence or extenuation of me or of my Baltimore
speech.
This violent hostility kindled against me was singularly evanescent.
It came like a whirlwind, and like a whirlwind departed. I soon saw
nothing of it, either in the courts among the lawyers, or on the streets
among the people; for it was discovered that there was really in my
speech at Baltimore nothing which made me “worthy of stripes or of
bonds.”
 Marshal at the Inauguration of Pres.
Garfield.
I can say from my experience in the office of United States Marshal
of the District of Columbia, it was every way agreeable. When it was
an open question whether I should take the office or not, it was
apprehended and predicted if I should accept it in face of the
opposition of the lawyers and judges of the courts, I should be
subjected to numberless suits for damages, and so vexed and worried
that the office would be rendered valueless to me; that it would not
only eat up my salary, but possibly endanger what little I might have
laid up for a rainy day. I have now to report that this apprehension was
in no sense realized. What might have happened had the members of
the District bar been half as malicious and spiteful as they had been
industriously represented as being, or if I had not secured as my
assistant a man so capable, industrious, vigilant, and careful as Mr.
L. P. Williams, of course I cannot know. But I am bound to praise the
bridge that carries me safely over it. I think it will ever stand as a
witness to my fitness for the position of Marshal, that I had the wisdom
to select for my assistant a gentleman so well instructed and
competent. I also take pleasure in bearing testimony to the generosity
of Mr. Phillips, the assistant Marshal who preceded Mr. Williams in that
office, in giving the new assistant valuable information as to the
various duties he would be called upon to perform. I have further to
say of my experience in the Marshal’s office, that while I have reason
to know that the eminent Chief Justice of the District of Columbia and
some of his associates were not well pleased with my appointment, I
was always treated by them, as well as by the chief clerk of the courts,
Hon. J. R. Meigs, and the subordinates of the latter (with a single
exception), with the respect and consideration due to my office. Among
the eminent lawyers of the District I believe I had many friends, and
there were those of them to whom I could always go with confidence in
an emergency for sound advice and direction, and this fact, after all the
hostility felt in consequence of my appointment, and revived by my
speech at Baltimore, is another proof of the vincibility of all feeling
arising out of popular prejudices.
In all my forty years of thought and labor to promote the freedom
and welfare of my race, I never found myself more widely and painfully
at variance with leading colored men of the country, than when I
opposed the effort to set in motion a wholesale exodus of colored
people of the South to the Northern States; and yet I never took a
position in which I felt myself better fortified by reason and necessity. It
was said of me, that I had deserted to the old master class, and that I
was a traitor to my race; that I had run away from slavery myself, and
yet I was opposing others in doing the same. When my opponents
condescended to argue, they took the ground that the colored people
of the South needed to be brought into contact with the freedom and
civilization of the North; that no emancipated and persecuted people
ever had or ever could rise in the presence of the people by whom
they had been enslaved, and that the true remedy for the ills which the
freedmen were suffering, was to initiate the Israelitish departure from
our modern Egypt to a land abounding, if not in “milk and honey,”
certainly in pork and hominy.
Influenced, no doubt, by the dazzling prospects held out to them
by the advocates of the exodus movement, thousands of poor, hungry,
naked, and destitute colored people were induced to quit the South
amid the frosts and snows of a dreadful winter in search of a better
country. I regret to say there was something sinister in this so-called
exodus, for it transpired that some of the agents most active in
promoting it had an understanding with certain railroad companies, by
which they were to receive one dollar per head upon all such
passengers. Thousands of these poor people, traveling only so far as
they had money to bear their expenses, were dropped on the levees of
St. Louis, in the extremest destitution; and their tales of woe were such
as to move a heart much less sensitive to human suffering than mine.
But while I felt for these poor deluded people, and did what I could to
put a stop to their ill-advised and ill-arranged stampede, I also did what
I could to assist such of them as were within my reach, who were on
their way to this land of promise. Hundreds of these people came to
Washington, and at one time there were from two to three hundred
lodged here, unable to get further for the want of money. I lost no time
in appealing to my friends for the means of assisting them.
Conspicuous among these friends was Mrs. Elizabeth Thompson of
New York city—the lady who, several years ago, made the nation a
present of Carpenter’s great historical picture of the “Signing of the
Emancipation Proclamation,” and who has expended large sums of her
money in investigating the causes of yellow-fever, and in endeavors to
discover means for preventing its ravages in New Orleans and
elsewhere. I found Mrs. Thompson consistently alive to the claims of
humanity in this, as in other instances, for she sent me, without delay,
a draft for two hundred and fifty dollars, and in doing so expressed the
wish that I would promptly inform her of any other opportunity of doing
good. How little justice was done me by those who accused me of
indifference to the welfare of the colored people of the South on
account of my opposition to the so-called exodus will be seen by the
following extracts from a paper on that subject laid before the Social
Science Congress at Saratoga, when that question was before the
country:

* * * * *

“Important as manual labor is everywhere, it is nowhere more

important and absolutely indispensable to the existence of society
than in the more southern of the United States. Machinery may
continue to do, as it has done, much of the work of the North, but
the work of the South requires bone, sinew, and muscle of the
strongest and most enduring kind for its performance. Labor in that
section must know no pause. Her soil is pregnant and prolific with
life and energy. All the forces of nature within her borders are
wonderfully vigorous, persistent, and active. Aided by an almost
perpetual summer abundantly supplied with heat and moisture,
her soil readily and rapidly covers itself with noxious weeds, dense
forests, and impenetrable jungles. Only a few years of non-tillage
would be needed to give the sunny and fruitful South to the bats
and owls of a desolate wilderness. From this condition, shocking
for a southern man to contemplate, it is now seen that nothing less
powerful than the naked iron arm of the negro, can save her. For
him as a Southern laborer, there is no competitor or substitute.
The thought of filling his place by any other variety of the human
family, will be found delusive and utterly impracticable. Neither
Chinaman, German, Norwegian, nor Swede can drive him from
the sugar and cotton fields of Louisiana and Mississippi. They
would certainly perish in the black bottoms of these states if they
could be induced, which they cannot, to try the experiment.
“Nature itself, in those States, comes to the rescue of the
negro, fights his battles, and enables him to exact conditions from
those who would unfairly treat and oppress him. Besides being
dependent upon the roughest and flintiest kind of labor, the climate
of the South makes such labor uninviting and harshly repulsive to
the white man. He dreads it, shrinks from it, and refuses it. He
shuns the burning sun of the fields and seeks the shade of the
verandas. On the contrary, the negro walks, labors, and sleeps in
the sunlight unharmed. The standing apology for slavery was
based upon a knowledge of this fact. It was said that the world
must have cotton and sugar, and that only the negro could supply
this want; and that he could be induced to do it only under the
“beneficent whip” of some bloodthirsty Legree. The last part of this
argument has been happily disproved by the large crops of these
productions since Emancipation; but the first part of it stands firm,
unassailed and unassailable.
“Even if climate and other natural causes did not protect the
negro from all competition in the labor-market of the South,
inevitable social causes would probably effect the same result.
The slave system of that section has left behind it, as in the nature
of the case it must, manners, customs, and conditions to which
free white laboring men will be in no haste to submit themselves
and their families. They do not emigrate from the free North, where
labor is respected, to a lately enslaved South, where labor has
been whipped, chained, and degraded for centuries. Naturally
enough such emigration follows the lines of latitude in which they
who compose it were born. Not from South to North, but from East
to West ‘the Star of Empire takes its way.’
“Hence it is seen that the dependence of the planters, land-
owners, and old master-class of the South upon the negro,
however galling and humiliating to Southern pride and power, is
nearly complete and perfect. There is only one mode of escape for
them, and that mode they will certainly not adopt. It is to take off
their own coats, cease to whittle sticks and talk politics at cross-
roads, and go themselves to work in their broad and sunny fields
of cotton and sugar. An invitation to do this is about as harsh and
distasteful to all their inclinations as would be an invitation to step
down into their graves. With the negro, all this is different. Neither
natural, artificial, or traditional causes stand in the way of the
freedman to labor in the South. Neither the heat nor the fever-
demon which lurks in her tangled and oozy swamps affright him,
and he stands to-day the admitted author of whatever prosperity,
beauty, and civilization are now possessed by the South, and the
admitted arbiter of her destiny.
 “This then, is the high vantage ground of the negro; he has
labor; the South wants it, and must have it or perish. Since he is
free he can now give it or withhold it, use it where he is, or take it
elsewhere as he pleases. His labor made him a slave, and his
labor can, if he will, make him free, comfortable, and independent.
It is more to him than fire, swords, ballot-boxes, or bayonets. It
touches the heart of the South through its pocket. This power
served him well years ago, when in the bitterest extremity of
destitution. But for it, he would have perished when he dropped
out of slavery. It saved him then, and it will save him again.
Emancipation came to him, surrounded by extremely unfriendly
circumstances. It was not the choice or consent of the people
among whom he lived, but against their will, and a death struggle
on their part to prevent it. His chains were broken in the tempest
and whirlwind of civil war. Without food, without shelter, without
land, without money, and without friends, he with his children, his
sick, his aged and helpless ones, were turned loose and naked to
the open sky. The announcement of his freedom was instantly
followed by an order from his master to quit his old quarters, and
to seek bread thereafter from the hands of those who had given
him his freedom. A desperate extremity was thus forced upon him
at the outset of his freedom, and the world watched with humane
anxiety, to see what would become of him. His peril was imminent.
Starvation and death stared him in the face and marked him for
their victim.
“It will not soon be forgotten that at the close of a five hours’
speech by the late Senator Sumner, in which he advocated with
unequaled learning and eloquence the enfranchisement of the
freedmen, the best argument with which he was met in the
Senate, was that legislation at that point would be utterly
superfluous; that the negro was rapidly dying out, and must
inevitably and speedily disappear and become extinct.
“Inhuman and shocking as was this consignment of millions of
human beings to extinction, the extremity of the negro, at that
date, did not contradict, but favored, the prophecy. The policy of
the old master-class dictated by passion, pride, and revenge, was
then to make the freedom of the negro, a greater calamity to him,