A Little Party Never Killed Nobody
rreiben
June 1860
It was wonderful to get away from the Georgia heat during the summer. It wasn’t so uncommon for families such as his to venture north to mingle with the well to do industrialists who bought their cotton. This, however, was more of a holiday—for pleasure rather than a business venture. What’s more, he had come alone, without his father and sisters, to visit Jack Bailey, a friend from Massachusetts that he’d met at Oxford. As the years passed, the Wilkes clan’s visits to the North grew fewer and fewer. They had just been there two months ago, but that had been the first time they had gone as a family within the past two years. Ashley knew it was because of the talk of secession, of possible war.
Slavery was set to rip their country in two. He knew it—they all knew it—but unlike his friends and neighbors, he wanted nothing to do with a conflict. His reasons were simple—he didn’t believe that keeping slaves was right, something he had only demonstrated once when he caught one of his father’s slaves running away and had done nothing to stop him. He had always been disturbed by it, always thought it was wrong, but when Moses faced a lashing or death from the parties sent out to retrieve him, like a common beast of burden, he’d felt sick. He had been sixteen, then, a mere six years ago.
He had renewed his vow to free everyone who worked his father’s plantation when John Wilkes passed. But until then, what was he to do? He tried to focus on the beauty of it all—the idyllic fields and pastures of the land, the earthy roads that crisscrossed Clayton County, the country dances—instead of the dark, cruel reality of it all. He spent as much time away from home as he could—he’d gone to school in England, toured Europe, and tried to see an opera in New York or Boston at least once a year. He even contemplated taking Jack up on his offer to work with him and his father in the Bailey and Sons Savings Bank in Boston. He had declined, the first time he had asked him, but in subsequent visits, Jack would always broach the topic again.
Tonight was no exception. “You remember Ashley Wilkes, don’t you, gentlemen? I offered him a fortune working at Bailey’s but he turned me down flat. Guess he’d rather go play in the fields picking cotton!” A slightly buzzed Jack teased with a shove, which Ashley returned with a laugh.
“He’s not the one doing the cotton picking. All those Georgia planters have slaves doing it for them.”
A hush fell over the parlor, and Ashley’s smile faded as his eyes met those of the other man, who was smoking a cigar across the room.
“Walters…” Jack warned, but the other man wasn’t finished.
“Those traitors are willing to start a war over their right to enslave their fellow man. I say let them go—there’s no place for Simon Legree and his ilk in the Union.” Walters snapped.
“We don’t even know if there will be any war, or even if they’ll decide to secede.” another man chimed in.
“’Course they will, if Lincoln gets elected—isn’t that right, Wilkes?”
All eyes shifted to him, and Ashley looked around the room uncomfortably. Even Jack watched him intently, waiting for an answer. Long ago, they had resolved not to talk about politics. As disgusted as he was by the entire principle of keeping people in bondage, he didn’t feel it was the right of northerners to tell them what to do—to decide their way of life for them, regardless of how wrong it was. He may have hated the south’s use of slave labor with every fiber of his being, but his father was a good man. He treated their slaves with respect—or as much respect as one could considering the situation. To hear him and people like him compared to the awful slave master in Uncle Tom’s Cabin angered him. It was enough to call a man out, but Pete Walters was a friend of Jack’s, and this was a fight Ashley wished to avoid—along with a war. “I don’t deny a great many Southern Democrats will be disappointed if a Republican wins…but I personally admire Mr. Lincoln. He went from splitting rails to becoming a lawyer, and a statesman—it’s a reflection of the American ideal. Besides, I happen to agree with him—that all men are created equal, black or white. I don’t like benefiting from the toil of others, and I can assure you, Mr. Walters, when Twelve Oaks is mine, I will be doing the cotton picking myself—every man, woman, and child who works my father’s land will be set free.”
“But if they do secede—where will you stand, Wilkes?” another man asked.
“I pray that day never comes. I pray that we can work out some sort of solution—without this coming to war. Four score and four years this nation’s held together, and it’ll be a tragic day for all of us, North and South, if it crumbles. I stand with the Republic, and with Georgia—and as of right now, Georgia is a part of the Republic. Excuse me, gentlemen.” He nodded his head and retreated into the other room, taking a drink from one of the servants and downing half of it immediately. It was the first time he’d admitted that he disagreed with the majority of his state, the majority of the land that was etched in his blood. There was a mix of rebelliousness and shame that coursed through him, and frankly, he didn’t know what to think. Sitting down in a chair, he watched as Jack’s sister took to the piano, beginning to play one of Foster’s songs.
