Rebels Against God (eBook)

Chapter Two

Between Battles

George Wythe’s Home

Shockoe Hill, Richmond, Virginia

Lydia Broadnax caught sight of the old judge ambling up the drive before she decided to return to the house from her kitchen. In the old style, this kitchen was housed in a separate building from the main house. Instead of walking back to the house, she waited right there in her kitchen, or rather, in Judge Wythe’s kitchen, where she was in charge.

Lydia knew that the kitchen would be the first place the old man would go as he returned home from his courthouse. Judge Wythe’s kitchen had been her kitchen for more than twenty years. She came with him from Williamsburg to Richmond to manage his new household. This was a quality house, set up on fashionable Shockoe Hill, near the State House and the judge’s courtroom.

As the tired old man approached with his short, stilted steps, Lydia called out to him, “Good Lord, Judge Wythe, look at you, as haggard as that old dog you keep ‘neath your chair, and carrying your own books and papers! What has become of that lanky negro boy, now? He should know better than to run off and let you carry your own papers back home from the courthouse. I should give him something of my mind.”

The old judge gently interrupted Lydia, “Now, Aunt Liddy, I told Michael Brown to go off and enjoy himself following the scene at the courthouse this morning. This Spring’s court session has been difficult for him as well for me. In many ways, I’m sure it weighs heavier on him. Yet, I have wanted him to be present to witness our work for freedom with his own eyes and ears.”

“Oh my word,” Lydia Broadnax scolded. “You just think too much about other people’s feelings instead of your own. Although I suppose I shouldn’t complain of it. It is due to that very thing about you that I owe my own dear freedom. Anyways, young Michael Brown ought to have known better and stuck with you. I will speak with him, you can count on it, I will.” Lydia shook her head, taking her anger out on crumbs from the morning’s breakfast as she sharply brushed them from the long oak tabletop to the floor.

George Wythe was well aware of the fiercely protective nature of his housekeeper. In Virginia, it was hard not to own slaves, and Lydia had been his, acquired from his wife’s family on the occasion of his marriage to their daughter. Wythe set Lydia free as soon as the law allowed following his wife’s death. Aunt Liddy, as she was often called by the Wythe family, chose to remain in the old judge’s service, as a free woman, earning her way. Wythe understood, and he appreciated it in a way that allowed an enduring tolerance of her native boldness.

Once again, the old judge defended his student. “I don’t mind, Aunt Liddy. I did appreciate the peaceful quiet walk home. Michael Brown loves to go to the river, to see what commerce is coming and going. I think he appreciates being around the mariners. Many of them are creatures as complex and exotic as Michael. Among them, I believe he would not be judged for the incongruities of his orange wooly hair, freckles and light skin.”

George Wythe pondered for a moment, about the question that he intended to ask Lydia next, and how she might respond. “Lydia, you may find this a strange question, but I am genuinely curious as to your thoughts. So, if you will indulge me, may I ask, why do you refer to Michael Brown as a negro?”

Lydia responded without giving it a thought. “Because he was born a slave, like I was, and only freed later. Being free doesn’t shed you of the fact that you were born a slave. Michael Brown is a negro and can never be anything else.”

George Wythe nodded his head to show he understood, but he pressed the inquiry further. “You can see, Lydia, as can everyone else, that Michael Brown is nearly as white as he is black. One of Michael Brown’s parents, and possibly others of his ancestors, must have been white. Who knows if the white ancestors outnumber the black ancestors, and what else might be included in the bargain. Perhaps more white ancestors than black ancestors. Couldn’t you just as well call him white as black?”

Lydia Broadnax pondered seriously for a moment. “Judge Wythe, you do pose a difficult riddle sometimes. But really, it just comes down to this. We all know how it happens, of course. Black folk and white folk, making babies. Sometimes out of love. Most times not. But, there are things in our society that are not mentioned out in the open, if I may say so, Judge. Not spoken of, except intimately, in whispers. I suppose the whiteness of Michael Brown is one of those secret things that nobody is supposed to talk about.”

Wythe chuckled a little and said, “Well now, Aunt Liddy, I said things in court today, that are not supposed to be said out loud. But, I said them. I said them publicly. I proclaimed them. I bellowed them as loudly and obnoxiously as I could.” The judge smiled broadly, leaning on his walking stick and waving his free hand around the room. “I want every woman, man and child to hear what I said, whether they want to hear it or not!” He stopped to catch his breath. After a moment, more calmly, he added, “I do believe I have frightened some folks, Lydia.”

Aunt Liddy heard this and grinned, showing a tolerably full mouth of teeth, some in better shape than others. She said, “You see Judge Wythe, I knew you have been working on something fiercely important lately. Late at night up there in your study or out on your patio, always all alone, except for your books. My goodness, somebody might think you were as friendless as a rooster in the morn. But, I know better. I’ll say this too. If you made some enemies today, Judge, I bet you also made some friends.” Aunt Liddy beamed with pride.

“Well, I appreciate your high confidence in me, Lydia.” Wythe paused and shook his head as he looked down at the comfortable wide plank floor of the kitchen. Suddenly, he exclaimed, “God’s bones, Aunt Liddy, is slavery all I think about these days? I am sad to report it is true. But, Lydia, it is soon to be over. My court will close its doors for the summertime. We all have much better things to do in these long, warm days. We will all take a well-deserved rest.” Wythe looked at Lydia with a bright sparkle in his cotton blue eyes. “Perhaps I shall travel to Monticello to spend a few afternoons debating the President of the United States upon important matters of the day. He shall be up there on his mountain this summer, and he has prodded me for a visit. Yes. Perhaps I shall oblige my dear Thomas Jefferson.”

Judge Wythe walked a few steps to a small corner table upon which sat a jug of iced tea. He collected a pewter tankard from a rack on the wall, poured the tea, and drank. Refreshed, he bent to look out a window and went on, “I can tell you, I am looking forward to life without conflict, for just these few precious months, Lydia, sticky and uncomfortable though they will undoubtedly be.” Wythe shot a wink at his old friend, acknowledging what they both knew well, that the summer months were hot, humid, and buggy, and that was the reason no one wanted to conduct courtroom business in the summer. “We will enjoy our leisure, my dear, but only until it all begins again in the fall, a brief enough respite,” he added. Chancellor Wythe watched the birds fluttering in the magnolia trees, and peacefully contemplated temporary retirement for the summer.

Peace was shattered when the kitchen door crashed open, spewing forth a young man reeking of whisky and tobacco. The boy pulled up and swayed forward and back. For this young fellow, walking upright any further was out of the question. With an unsteady hand, he reached out and gripped the edge of a nearby hutch, hoping to interrupt a fall and gain stability.

Young George Wythe Sweeney had discovered that being Chancellor George Wythe’s great-nephew and namesake could be difficult and dangerous among the wrong sorts of people in Richmond. And George Sweeney had been making friends with all the wrong sorts of people of late. As he tried to steady himself, the boy gave his best effort to express his frustration, but it only emerged as a slurred, drunken mumble. Some considerable time passed before young Sweeney was able to get started. Eventually, after a few false starts, George Wythe Sweeney, all of seventeen years old, was, as disrespectfully as possible, getting to the point that, “not everyone in Richmond adores you, old man.”

Through cloudy, watery red eyes, George Sweeney tried and failed to stare down his great-uncle. Watching his only sister’s grandson struggle, Judge Wythe smiled sadly and began to search his pockets for his pipe and tobacco. He remained silent and leaned against a kitchen chest, began to load the pipe, and patiently awaited the rest of whatever this young fool would be able to get out before finally, inevitably, the boy would either pass out or begin to vomit.

Finally, Sweeney’s mournful rant was launched in earnest, and he began to waive a shaky arm as he spoke. “It’s me what takes the abuse for it! In the taverns and at the tracks and in the gambling rooms. Nobody says anything in the Governor’s Mansion or in the great halls of justice, mind you. They don’t speak a peep in church on Sunday. Every one of them lacks the courage to speak out as to their true beliefs, no doubt.” Sweeney paused, expecting some sort of response. None came, so he drove on. “But, once you dig down all the way to the dirty,...