Candle in the Darkness Read online

  I reread the newspaper account of “The Weeping Time” for myself after my uncle left for work, and I could no longer bear to think of home. The fire of longing that I’d nurtured had been coldly extinguished. I didn’t want to go back to a place where 436 men, women, and children could be sold and separated from their loved ones like cattle. I wanted to forget that the people I loved— Tessie and Eli and Esther—were my father’s property.

  It proved easy to forget home, to lose myself in the rush and dazzle of life in Philadelphia. Everything about the city was frantic and fast-paced compared to Richmond, from the traffic that clogged the streets to the boisterous activity and lively visitors that filled and sometimes overflowed the house. My aunt and cousins were swept up in an almost endless series of parties, balls, and social gatherings, and I allowed them to carry me away with them. Since Cousin Rosalie and her mother were on a mission to find Rosalie a husband, every social occasion became a hunting expedition.

  Rosalie was seventeen, a year older than me, and her life revolved entirely around meeting, wooing, and marrying the best possible “catch” in all of Philadelphia. As the daughter of a prominent, wealthy judge, she could well afford to be choosy. She was a very pretty girl—many said beautiful—with fine brown hair, hazel eyes, and the sort of fragile, delicate bone structure that made men rush to protect and assist her. But as I grew to know Rosalie, her excruciating perfectionism in matters of her clothing, her hair, and her toiletries—not to mention the importance she placed on her suitors’ wealth and social status—diminished her beauty in my eyes. I grew to think of her as “pointy”; her nose and chin were pointy, her eyebrows as thin and as pointy as knife blades, her elbows and knees bony and sharp. But her tongue was by far the most pointed of all. I quickly learned to agree with her, to defer to her, and above all, to never, never outshine her.

  Cousin Julia, who was still too young for a husband, wanted one anyway and flirted shamelessly, falling in love with a new beau every week. She was fifteen and still very much her father’s spoiled pet. Physically, the two girls were as different as sisters could be. Julia was not fat, but everything about her was soft and full—her pouty lips, her pink cheeks, her dark brown eyes, her ample bosom. The latter was a constant source of jealousy on Rosalie’s part, since she wasn’t nearly as well endowed. Julia’s golden brown, naturally curly hair was soft and full as well, and when she unpinned it, she looked as angelic as a cherub in an illustrated Bible. But her cherubic appearance belied her lively, unreserved personality.

  Of course, we needed to be fashionably clothed for every social occasion, so Aunt Martha hired a dressmaker. She outfitted all four of us in day dresses for afternoon social calls and for entertaining callers at home, and in ball gowns for parties and evening affairs. I fell in love with the glamour and sway of taffeta petticoats and hoops, the swish and flow of fine silk skirts, the tickle of lace on wrist and neck. I became nearly as vain as Rosalie, primping and posing in front of the mirror, arranging my thick brown hair, admiring my tiny waist and high bosom. I was very pleased with the pretty, grown-up girl who gazed back at me. All this relentless activity helped me forget home, and as I watched my aunt in her unguarded moments, I sometimes wondered if it helped her forget, too.

  Because I was somewhat of a novelty in Philadelphia—the Hoffmans’ Southern cousin with her quiet, velvety drawl—the invitations poured through our mail slot. All my life I’d been painfully shy and fearful of new situations, and although that hadn’t changed much, it proved no deterrent to my flowering social life. Rosalie was scheming and socially determined, fearing no one; Julia was lively and outgoing, fearing nothing; I simply floated in their wake. My natural shyness and reserve became part of my mystique as a Southern belle. And if the Hoffmans’ cousin Robert was with me, I didn’t even have to finish my own sentences—he finished them for me.

  Robert Hoffman had become a fixture around our house that spring. He was Rosalie and Julia’s cousin, not mine, and he lived on the same street that we did. Since his family was invited to most of the same social functions we were, Robert assumed the duty of escorting me. When the weather finally turned nice, he showed me all the sights of Philadelphia, sometimes riding on the new public horsecars that traveled the city streets on iron rails. Robert was fascinated with war, and no matter which site we visited— whether viewing displays of birds and insects at the National Academy of Sciences or strolling in Fairmont Park on a Sunday afternoon—his comments invariably turned into a lengthy monologue about the American Revolution or the second war with the British. Rosalie would tell him plainly to shut up. Julia would sigh and roll her eyes. And both would eventually wander away to leave me his sole audience.

  Robert planned to attend West Point Military Academy in the fall, hoping to become a great army general, but I had trouble picturing him as a soldier. He had the same softness that Julia did, like a puppy that hasn’t quite outgrown its baby fat. With his dark, glossy hair, swarthy skin, and soulful, down-turned eyes, he reminded me more of a mournful Spanish poet than a spit-andpolish military commander. His palms were sweaty, his monologues boring, and he danced as if his shoes were on the wrong feet, but I clung willingly to his arm, grateful that I didn’t have to face new people and new situations all alone.

  Robert escorted me to the extravagant ball that was given when the Academy of Music’s opera house opened that year, but I quickly lost sight of him in the deluge of young gentlemen requesting the honor of a dance with me. I barely caught the first gentleman’s name and a glimpse of his face before he swept me out onto the dance floor. Then the agonizing task of making conversation began.

  “Good evening, miss. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting before.”

  “Um . . . I’m Caroline Fletcher. Perhaps you know my uncle, Judge Philip Hoffman?”

  “Caroline Fletcher,” he repeated, imitating my Southern accent. “I must confess that I already knew that, Miss Fletcher. I just wanted to listen to your voice. I love the dreamy way y’all stretch out your words,” he said, imitating me again. I excused myself and tried to flee the moment the music stopped, but I was immediately swept away by another would-be suitor.

  “Judge Hoffman certainly lives with a house full of beauties,” this one told me. “But I believe you’re the prettiest one of them all. May I have the honor of calling on you sometime?”

  I shook my head. His flattery did not gain my interest. “My uncle does not wish me to accept callers,” I lied.

  “I hear you’re from down south, Miss Fletcher,” my next dancing partner said. I’d forgotten his name the moment he’d told it to me.

  “Yes. I’m from Richmond, Virginia.”

  “How many slaves do you own?”

  “Why, I don’t own any.”

  “Come now, Miss Fletcher. I’m not criticizing you or anything. I’m just curious to know what it feels like to own a few darkies.”

  “I really wouldn’t know. As I’ve already told you, I don’t own any Negroes.”

  “Say, you don’t have to get in a temper. I’ve visited down south, and I understand how much your economy depends on slave labor.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Tell you the truth, I’m on your side. I can’t stand the way all these uppity free Negroes strut around Philadelphia.”

  I turned and walked away from him without even thanking 101 him for the dance.

  “You must have read Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” my next partner said. “What do you make of it? Are things down south really as horrible as Miss Stowe portrays them?”

  “I’m sorry, but I haven’t read the book.”

  “Oh, you should, Miss Fletcher. It’s quite a vivid account. But then, you’ve probably seen firsthand some of the things she describes—husbands and wives sold to different owners, children separated from their mothers, slaves whipped . . .”

  I wanted to weep. Everywhere I went, it seemed that people wanted to discuss slavery, yet they talked about it as if it was an abstract concept. It w
asn’t abstract to me. Slaves were real-life people with individual faces and souls. I knew some of those faces, loved some of those souls, and it broke my heart to be reminded of the truth about them—that Josiah and Tessie weren’t allowed to be man and wife; that Grady had been torn without warning from his mother’s arms; that Eli could be whipped for secretly preaching about Jesus in the pine grove or killed for knowing how to read.

  “It’s very warm in here,” I said. “Would you mind fetching me some punch?”

  “I’d be happy to, Miss Fletcher. You wait right here, now. And don’t go wandering off with anyone else, all right?”

  As soon as the gentleman disappeared into the crowd, heading for the punch bowl, I searched the sea of faces for Cousin Robert’s. When I spotted him talking to an older gentleman in a military uniform, I fled to Robert’s side like a drowning woman swimming for a lifeboat. I heard the end of his conversation, and thankfully it wasn’t about slavery.

  “. . . I’m just afraid there won’t be any more battles left to fight by the time I get my officer’s commission—” Robert stopped when he saw me. “Caroline? What’s wrong? You’re quite pale.”

  “Too much dancing, I guess. It’s made me feel a little dizzy.”

  “Do you want to step outside for some air?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Will you excuse us, sir?” he asked the uniformed gentleman. Robert offered him a flabby salute before taking my hand. His palm was clammy, as usual, but I didn’t care. I felt safe with him. He was always too busy talking about battles and wars to pester me with questions about slavery or the South.

  “Are you having fun so far?” he asked after we’d stepped outside. Then, without waiting for a reply, he said, “I had the most interesting chat with Colonel Marshall. He fought in the Mexican War, you know, and he related several fascinating experiences. . . .” Robert talked on and on about the Mexican War for several minutes, but I wasn’t listening. When he finally asked if I was ready to go back inside, I had a desperate idea.

  “Robert, I really don’t want to dance with anyone but you. Would it be terribly rude if we told everyone else to go away?”

  His face registered surprise. For once in his life I think he was speechless. The balcony where we stood was quite dark, but I’m certain I saw his face flush with pleasure.

  “Of course not, Caroline . . . d-dear. To tell you the truth, I really don’t want to share you with all the others.”

  Robert was a terrible dancer. He held me awkwardly, and he kept treading on my toes, repeating, “Sorry . . . sorry.” I didn’t care. Each time another gentleman tried to cut in, Robert would proudly say, “Sorry, Miss Fletcher has promised all of her dances to me.”

  I hid in Robert’s shadow for the remainder of the social season, knowing I would have to come up with a new strategy once he left for West Point. When that day finally arrived, Julia and I went with his parents to see his ship off at Penn’s Landing.

  “Promise me you won’t marry someone else while I’m away?” he begged. He looked as somber as a soldier leaving for battle. I laughed at his sweaty earnestness.

  “Don’t worry. Rosalie would murder me if I dared to find a husband before she did.” As he steamed away, gazing mournfully from the ship’s rail, I wondered how I would ever get along without him. I decided to ask Rosalie for advice.

  “For goodness’ sakes, Caroline. I can’t imagine feeling tonguetied when I’m dancing with a suitor.” I had broached the question as Rosalie sat at our dressing table, primping for a round of afternoon social calls. She took forever to get ready, and since there was only one mirror in our room, Julia and I rarely got more than a glimpse of ourselves. That day, I decided to stand behind Rosalie and peer around her as we both brushed our hair. She gazed at my reflection with pity.

  “But your shyness is beside the point,” she continued. “The unwritten rules of etiquette say that proper young ladies mustn’t talk too much in the first place. We’re supposed to draw the conversation out of our gentlemen.”

  “How do I do that? The only man I’ve ever talked to for any length of time is Robert. And he never runs out of famous battles to discuss.”

  “Don’t judge all men by Robert.” She dismissed him with a toss of her head and a flip of her hand. “Most men’s favorite subject is themselves. Ask them a few questions, toss in a few oohs and ahhs, and I guarantee they’ll simply go on and on about themselves. You’ll be lucky to get a word in sideways.”

  I tried her advice at the very next opportunity. Before the young man had a chance to say a word, I said, “Tell me about yourself.” He didn’t stop until the music did.

  Along with their busy round of social obligations, my aunt and her family also faithfully attended worship services in one of Philadelphia’s beautiful churches. It was the socially expected thing to do, the proper place to be seen—and a very lucrative place to engage in husband-hunting. The family pew had belonged to the Hoffmans since before the Revolutionary War, and pity the poor visitor who mistakenly sat there on a Sunday morning. Their church was very much like ours back home: the same hard, boxy pews; the same slow, somber organ music; the same stained-glass windows with their bronze plaques honoring generous donors; the same flowery oratory in the pastors’ sermons, quietly lulling everyone to sleep.

  Sometimes, in unguarded moments, I would recall the slaves’ midnight worship service out in the woods behind the plantation, remembering its joy-filled music and Eli’s heart-stirring sermon, and I’d almost wish I could go back there to clap and dance and sing about Massa Jesus. I’d promised Eli that I wouldn’t forget all the lessons he shared with Grady and me, but after more than a year in Philadelphia, those memories were already fading like scenes glimpsed at sunset.

  Then one Sunday morning the entire congregation was suddenly jolted awake. A new minister, fresh out of Yale Divinity School, arrived to fill in for our venerable old pastor who had taken ill. The young Reverend Nathaniel Greene shouted loudly enough to wake the dead in the churchyard, not to mention Aunt Martha. His sermon shook the chandeliers and the chancel rails and rattled the stained-glass saints and the drowsing deacons and dowagers. Blunt and raw, his wasn’t a pretty speech, but it was electrifying in its passion. He spoke as though he really meant every word, the way Eli used to talk about Massa Jesus, as if He were a real live person. Rev. Greene’s text from 1 Corinthians warned that the Lord “will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, make manifest the counsels of the hearts.”

  “What really motivates us as we go about our daily affairs,” he asked. “Is it pride in our external appearance? The desire for wealth and recognition? Do any of us have a genuine desire to see the kingdoms of this world become the kingdoms of our God and of His Christ? We might hide the dimly illuminated recesses of our hearts from ourselves and from each other,” Rev. Greene warned, “but the time is coming when God’s light will shine in the darkness, bringing our motives to light!”

  Those words were chilling enough, especially when I guiltily recalled how preoccupied I’d become with my clothes and my appearance. But when the pastor gripped the pulpit and fixed us with his impassioned gaze, his next words were met with pin-drop silence. “I’m speaking about the issue of slavery. You are either in favor of its continuance in these United States of America, or you will fight against it with all your heart and mind and strength until it is abolished. There can be no middle ground, no neutral territory between what’s right and what’s wrong, just as there is no compromise between light and darkness. What motivates you?” he concluded. “It’s time to examine your heart. And then let’s be about our heavenly Father’s business.”

  My aunt and uncle didn’t linger to socialize after the service— few people did. That’s how shaken we all felt.

  “Well! That young man certainly won’t last long with our congregation,” Aunt Martha declared at the dinner table. “Imagine! Trying to tell us how to live! That’s not what church is for. Rosalie, pass the potatoe
s, please.”

  “What is church for, dear?” Uncle Philip asked quietly.

  “Why . . . why, it’s so that we will all feel uplifted, of course. It’s to remind us that God is love.”

  “It seems to me that’s precisely what that young man tried to do today—to remind us that God loves the Negro race as much as He loves ours.”

  Aunt Martha pushed her chair back, as if she was about to stand. “Don’t start with me, Philip. You know I dislike slavery as much as you do. I gladly left it all behind when I moved up here.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” I heard Uncle Philip murmur.

  I stared down at my plate of roast beef in shame. I’d managed to push all the injustices I’d witnessed from my mind, too, but they hadn’t gone away. I felt as though God was shining His light in my heart, just as Rev. Greene had warned, and I hated what I saw: cowardice.

  “What we do outside of church is none of that young man’s business,” Aunt Martha concluded.

  Uncle Philip gaped at her, his dinner roll halfway to his mouth. He seemed too stunned to speak.

  “Mama,” Julia asked suddenly, “may I invite Rev. Greene to afternoon tea on Thursday?” Julia’s face wore the dreamy look she always got when she fell in love with a new beau. I guessed that she had now fallen for the young reverend. Had she even heard a word of her parents’ conversation? Or Rev. Greene’s stirring sermon? “

  I think that would be a fine idea, Julia,” Uncle Philip said before my aunt could reply. “I understand that Rev. Greene is originally from New York State. He probably doesn’t know a soul here in Philadelphia.”

  Nathaniel Greene was the sole topic of Julia’s conversation for the next four days. He had accepted her invitation to tea, creating the serious crisis of what she should wear for the occasion. I looked for a way to be excused from the event, terrified that he would see the darkness that was in my heart the moment he set eyes on me. But of course I was expected to attend—to keep Julia from going into a swoon if for no other reason.