clear-eyed and refusing laudanum to the end.
'She was forty-two. Never had much of a life,' Brown said. It was a statement, not a plea for pity. 'No braver woman ever walked this earth.'
Constance met Scipio Brown at the reception for Dr. Delany, the pan-Africanist. In his splendid dyed robes, Delany circulated among the fifty or sixty guests invited to the Chase residence, enthralling them with his conversation. It was Delany who had brought young Brown to the reception.
Falling into conversation with Brown, George and Constance were fascinated by his demeanor as well as his history and his views. He was as tall as Cooper Main, and though he was not well dressed — his frock coat, an obvious hand-me-down, had worn lapels and sleeves that ended two inches above his wrists — he didn't act self- conscious. The clothes were probably the best he owned, and if people were scornful, the problem was theirs, not his.
When Brown said he was a disciple of Martin Delany, Constance asked, 'You mean you'd leave the country for Liberia or some equivalent place, given the chance?'
Brown drank some tea. He handled the cup as gracefully as anyone present. 'A year ago, I would have said yes immediately. Today, I'm less certain. America is viciously anti-Negro, and I imagine it will remain so for several generations yet. But I anticipate improvements. I believe in Corinthians.'
Standing with his head back a few degrees, which was necessary when George conversed with extremely tall men, he said, 'I beg your pardon?'
Brown smiled. His head was long, his features regular but unmemorable. His smile, however, seemed to resort those features into a shining amber composition that was immensely attractive and winning. 'Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. 'Behold, I shew you a mystery. We shall not all sleep but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall all be changed.'' He drank more tea. 'I just hope we don't have to wait until the last trump, which is a part of the verse I left out.'
George said, 'I grant that your race has suffered enormous tribulation. But wouldn't you say that you personally have been fortunate? You grew up free, and you've lived that way all your life.'
Unexpectedly, Brown showed anger. 'Do you honestly think that makes any difference, Major Hazard? Every colored person in this country is enslaved to the fears of whites and to the way those fears influence white behavior. You're fooled because my chains don't show. But I still have them. I am a black man. The struggle is my struggle. Every cross is my cross — in Alabama or Chicago or right here.'
Bristling slightly, George said, 'If you consider this country so wicked, what's kept you from leaving?'
'I thought I told you. Hope of change. My studies have taught me that change is one of the world's few constants. America's hypocritical picture of the freedom it offers has been destined to change since the Declaration was signed, because the institution of slavery is evil and never was anything else. I hope the war will hasten abolition. Once I was foolish enough to think the law would accomplish the task, but Dred Scott showed that even the Supreme Court's tainted. The last resort and shelter of despotism.'
George refused to surrender. 'I'll grant much of what you say, Brown. But not that remark about American freedom being hypocritical. I think you overstate the case.'
'I disagree. But if so' — the smile warmed away any antagonism — 'consider it one of the few privileges of my color.'
'So it's hope of change that keeps you here — ' Constance began.
'That and my responsibilities. It's mostly the children who keep me here.'
'Ah, you're married.'
'No, I'm not.'
'Then whose —?'
A call from Kate Chase interrupted. Dr. Delany had consented to speak briefly. The secretary's attractive daughter wanted the guests to refill their cups and plates and find places.
At the serving table, where a young black girl in a domestic's apron gave Brown an admiring glance, George said, 'I'd like to hear more of your views. We live at Willard's Hotel —'
'I know.'
The statement astonished Constance, though it seemed to pass right by her husband.
'Will you dine with us there some night?'
'Thank you, Major, but I doubt the management would like that. The Willard brothers are decent men, but I'm still one of their employees.'
'You're what?'
'I am a porter at Willard's Hotel. It's the best job I could find here. I won't work for the army. The army's running its own peculiar institution these days: hiring my people to cook and chop wood and fetch and carry for a pittance. We're good enough to dig sinks but not good enough to fight. That's why I'm a porter instead.'
'Willard's,' George muttered. 'I'm dumbfounded. Have we ever passed one another in the lobby or the hallways?'
Brown led them toward chairs. 'Certainly. Dozens of times.
You may look at me, but you never see me. It's another privilege of color. Mrs. Hazard, will you be seated?'
Later, realizing Brown was right, George started to apologize, but the lanky Negro brushed it away with a smile and a shrug. They had no further opportunity to talk. But Constance remained curious about his reference to children. Next afternoon at the hotel, she searched until she found him removing trash and discarded cigar butts from sand urns. Ignoring stares from people in the lobby, she asked Brown to explain what he meant.
'The children are runaways, what that cross-eyed general Butler calls contrabands. There's a black river flowing out of the South these days. Sometimes children escape with their parents, then the parents get lost. Sometimes the children don't belong to anyone, just tag along after the adults making the dash. Would you like to see some of the children, Mrs. Hazard?'
His eyes fastened on hers, testing. 'Where?' she countered.
'Out where I live, on north Tenth Street.'
'Negro Hill?' The soft intake of breath before the question gave her away. He didn't react angrily.
'There's nothing to fear just because it's a black community. We have only our fair share of undesirables, same as down here — I take it back, you have more.' He grinned. 'You also have the politicians. Truly, you'll be perfectly safe if you'd care to come. I don't work Tuesdays. We could go during the day.'
'All right,' Constance said, hoping George would agree to it.
Surprisingly, he did. 'If anyone could protect a woman anywhere, I have a feeling it's that young chap. Go visit his community of waifs. I'll be fascinated to know what it's like.'
George paid a livery to bring a carriage to Willard's front door on Tuesday. The lout delivering it glowered when he saw Brown and Constance sit side by side on the driver's seat. The Negro was a companion, not a servant. The lout muttered something nasty, but one glance from Brown cut it short.
'When did you come to Washington?' Constance asked as Brown drove them away from the hotel into the perennial congestion of omnibuses, military wagons, horses, and pedestrians.
'Last fall, after Old Abe won.'
'Why then?'
'Didn't I explain at the reception? The resettlement plan is in abeyance because of the war, and I thought this might be the cockpit of change. I hoped some useful work might find me, and it has. You'll see —
Soon they were rattling through the autumn heat to the overgrown empty lots far out on Tenth. Negro Hill was a depressing enclave of tiny homes, most unpainted, and hovels built of poles, canvas, and pieces of old crates. She saw chicken pens, vegetable patches, flowerpots. The small touches could do little to relieve the air of festering poverty.
The Negroes they passed gave them curious, occasionally suspicious looks. Presently Brown turned left into a rutted lane. At the end stood a cottage of new yellow pine bright as sunflower petals.
'The whole community helped build this,' he said. 'It's already too small. We can feed and house only twelve. But it's a start, and all we could afford.'
The shining little house smelled deliciously of raw wood and hearth smoke and, inside, of soap. The interior, brightened by large windows, consisted of two rooms. In the nearer one, a stout black woman sat on a stool, Bible
