The Invisible Line (15 page)

By the 1820s, however, the need for a militia grew less pressing, and the muster was, to one Kentuckian's mind, “more or less a farce.” Militia days became “the big to-do,” and shambling, tipsy pantomimes of military drills occurred alongside an all-purpose festival of horse trading and races and cockfights. The militia companies assembled with men toting “old shotguns, rusty rifles, long untried fowling-pieces, cornstalks, and hickory sticks.”
³³

In the mid-1850s the legislature eventually found no reason to keep requiring the militia to drill six times a year, but until then Jordan Spencer played his part on the muster ground. Someone could have objected to his presence. He was out in the world, publicly claiming a place in the crowd. Carrying a weapon was a serious offense for free people of color, an inevitable precursor, many feared, to claims of equality or outright rebellion.
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But in the “pell-mell” of the Johnson County muster, it mattered little that Spencer had dark skin. Even if his appearance raised eyebrows, it was more important that he wanted to be white and acted accordingly. To treat Spencer differently, to police the color line, would have involved a level of time and expense and attention that no one was willing to spend. Even people who cared about racial mixing understood the convenient notion that unless it was impossible to say otherwise, everyone in Johnson County was white. “I always was in sympathy with the man,” said a Paintsville businessman about Jordan Spencer, “because he tried to be a good man, and tried to avoid looking like a darkey, and because he wanted to raise himself up instead of lowering himself.”
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The difference between black and white was less about “blood” or biology or even genealogy than about how people were treated and whether they were allowed to participate fully in community life. Blacks were the people who were slaves, in fact or in all but name; the rest were white. Jordan Spencer's community could accept him as an equal as long as he never forced them to acknowledge his ancestry. As long as he was one of the crowd, people could forget what made his family different.

As the reveling crescendoed, a few men donned sashes or cockaded hats and called their companies to formation. At a typical muster, Jordan Spencer would have stood among a ragged bunch, men of all ages and heights and shapes, some barefoot, some shirtless. Unless they were lining up along a ditch or a corn row, wrote one Kentuckian, the militia's ranks were “motley and ludicrous,” “straggling, and crooked.” When they paraded, guns on shoulders, through the cheering crowds, “all mingled together in the most beautiful and checkered confusion.” Jordan and his brothers in arms would have waited for their officer to coax and prod his troops into straighter lines, then bellow the order: “March!”
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A
BIG MAN STANDS OUT in a small town. Anderson Jennings was over six feet tall, full bearded, a prime specimen of what was known as a “buffalo bull.” When he appeared in the village of Oberlin, people instantly seemed to know who he was and where he was from. Amid the muted tones of Ohio, his Kentucky accent sounded like a fiddle out of tune. Oberlin was a college town and religious settlement, a quiet community of learning and prayer. But Jennings carried two fiveshooters, rarely left his room at the tavern by the railroad depot, and kept to the shadows when he did. As he well knew, no town in the United States hated slavery with as much passion as Oberlin. Yet there he was, in his words, “nigger-catching.”
¹

Jennings owned a farm and livery stable in Mason County, Kentucky, on the Ohio River's south bank. His slaves were more valuable than his land, and almost every year his human quarry increased. When a young man named Henry disappeared one late summer night in 1858, it was as if $1,500 had fallen out of Jennings's coat. Jennings could guess where Henry was heading. Even though a neighbor described Jennings as someone who did not “follow the business of capturing niggers,” he could draw on the decades of experience that Mason County slaveowners had in tracking down runaways. Jennings headed to the river landing at Maysville. In his pockets he carried his guns, a roll of ten- and twenty-dollar bills, and a set of handcuffs. He was ready to recapture a man he thought of as “my boy.”
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Jennings sensed that if Henry was heading north, sooner or later he would pass through Oberlin. A generation earlier, descendants of New England Puritans had built the college and town in the northern Ohio forest, dedicating themselves to bringing “our perishing world ... under the entire influence of the blessed gospel of peace.” To give themselves time, health, and money to serve the Lord, they renounced “all bad habits, and especially the smoking and chewing of tobacco, unless it is necessary as a medicine,” pledged not to drink tea and coffee “as far as practicable,” and rejected “all the world's expensive and unwholesome fashions of dress, particularly tight dressing and ornamental attire.” They built themselves a simple world: saltbox houses, unadorned brick school buildings, and a village green guarded by a towering elm, like a hand reaching to heaven. They prayed in its shade.
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Always the center of the community, the Oberlin Collegiate Institute trained missionaries and teachers “in body, intellect and heart for the service of the Lord.” From its beginning in 1832, the school educated both sexes. Within three years it devoted itself to the abolition of slavery, taking the then-radical step of admitting students “irrespective of color.” In the decades that followed, blacks and whites studied and worshipped together and spent their vacations lecturing for antislavery societies and teaching in colored schools. Scandalous rumors circulated around the country that white and black Oberliners shared dormitory rooms and were even marrying each other. Hundreds of runaway slaves passed through on their way to Canada, and dozens more put down roots there. It was no secret. Six miles north of town, a sign pointed the way there not with an arrow but with “a full-length picture of a colored man, running with all his might to reach the place.”
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Jennings did not have to run to Oberlin. He steamed seventy miles up the Ohio to Cincinnati and then took the newly built railroad two hundred miles northeast. It let him off in Wellington, ten miles south of his destination. Sitting in the men's car, watching the muddy expanses of harvested cornfields go by, he had reason to be nervous about his incursion into enemy land. Still, Jennings had the law solidly on his side. In 1850 Congress had passed the Fugitive Slave Act, which allowed slaveowners and their authorized agents to “pursue and reclaim” escapees on free soil. A pursuer could swear out an arrest warrant that a United States marshal was obliged to enforce. The act also permitted slaveowners to kidnap people and force them into federal court. After a short hearing, a commissioner would determine the status of the person in custody. Commissioners were paid ten dollars upon ruling that a person was a slave, but only five dollars if they determined that he or she was free. Anyone interfering with the recapture of a fugitive faced prison and thousands of dollars in fines. Six years later the Supreme Court went one step further than Congress. In the
Dred Scott
decision, the Court ruled that, slave or free, members of the “unhappy black race,” “separated from the white by indelible marks,” were not citizens of the United States. According to Chief Justice Roger Taney, although the words of the Declaration of Independence “would seem to embrace the whole human family, . . . the enslaved African race were not intended to be included.” Jennings knew he had every right to collect what was his.
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ALL DAY LONG ORINDATUS Simon Bolivar Wall worked with skin. The Oberlin shoemaker cut it with sharp blades, punched holes in it with awls, pinned it to lasts, and stitched it to soles. He shaped, molded, and manipulated it until it became something else. Every day skin surrendered easily to his hands. It was tanned and dyed, polished black and every shade of brown. In a town where just about everyone was preoccupied with the fine line between slavery and freedom, Wall's expertise in matters of color and skin conferred upon him a certain authority. Asked once whether he “knew the colors by which people of color were classified,” the short, stocky man answered simply: “There were black, blacker, blackest.”
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The day Jennings appeared, the Kentuckian was the talk of Oberlin. The consensus opinion was that he was a slave-catcher. But whom was he after? When would he strike? And what was the best way to resist? His presence was almost certainly topic number one in Wall's shop on East College Street in the center of town. It was cooler than the blacksmith shop, quieter than the sawmill, and less rank than the livery stable—in other words, a congenial place to discuss politics. And amid the workbenches littered with leather scrap, politics for Wall and his partner, David Watson, meant abolitionism. Watson, an Oberlin graduate, was an active member of the Ohio Anti-Slavery Society, and Wall had spent his life walking the line between liberty and bondage.
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Freed by their father and sent north, Wall and his brothers and sisters had been raised in comfort by their Quaker guardians in Harveysburg, Ohio, and treated as members of the town's finest family. But they lived with the knowledge that their mothers remained in bondage. As they came of age, Wall's older brother Napoleon used his inheritance to establish himself as a farmer on thirteen hundred acres nearby. A younger sister, Caroline, moved north to enroll at Oberlin.
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Orindatus—known as O.S.B. or Datus—decided to learn a trade. With his pick of professions, he settled on shoemaking, a curious choice. By the 1840s shoemaking was not just a lowly line of work; it was a dying craft, rapidly becoming a mechanized industry centered in mill towns like Lynn and Haverhill, Massachusetts. As slaves, the Wall children likely wore cheap shoes mass-produced in New England factories. Yet the trade held a certain allure for Orindatus. It was neither loud nor exhausting nor dangerous and left plenty of time for thinking, reading, and talking. With surprising regularity through the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, shoemakers turned to radical ideas. The last surviving member of the Boston Tea Party was a shoemaker. A disproportionate number of the mob kicking down the Bastille's doors had stitched their own boots. “Philosophic cobblers” formed the vanguard of English rioters in the 1830s and German revolutionaries in 1848. They wrote political poetry and proudly circulated books with titles such as
Lives of Illustrious Shoemakers
. For Orindatus, perhaps the most illustrious of them all was George Fox, revered in Harveysburg, who started life as a shoemaker's apprentice and went on to found Quakerism.
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After the Fugitive Slave Act passed, Wall helped start a local abolitionist society. Across the North slavery's opponents were resolving to do whatever they could to keep runaways free. To their minds, the law of the land had been so corrupted that there was no reason to obey it. The Fugitive Slave Act was little more than “a hideous deformity in the
garb
of law,” the abolitionist orator John Mercer Langston told a convention of black Ohioans in 1851. His brother Charles, a schoolteacher in Columbus who would be the namesake of his grandson Langston Hughes, called on “every slave, from Maryland to Texas, to arise and assert their
liberties
, and cut their masters' throats.”
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O.S.B. Wall would come to know both Langston brothers well. Up in Oberlin, his sister Caroline started receiving the attentions of a smitten John Mercer Langston, who had graduated from the college in 1849 and was studying to be Ohio's first black lawyer. The couple had much in common, from their political ideals to their life stories. Like Caroline, Langston had moved to Ohio as a young child with no mother, freed by his planter father with a small inheritance. During winter vacation in 1851 Langston visited Caroline in Harveysburg and struck up a friendship with her older brother.
¹¹

A little more than a year later O.S.B. Wall moved to Oberlin. Perhaps he decided to pack his bags after hearing Langston describe Oberlin as “the most noted Abolition town in America,” but he may have had other reasons entirely. In October 1854 Caroline and John were married. The very next day, Orindatus wed one of Caroline's classmates, seventeen-year-old Amanda Thomas.
¹²

Amanda walked many of the lines that her husband did—between slavery and freedom, black and white. Born in Virginia in 1837 and “quite light” in appearance, she grew up in Cincinnati well within memory of the time city officials, aided by murderous mobs, expelled more than a thousand black residents. Throughout her childhood whites in southern Ohio were up in arms over the influx of blacks from slave states. Amanda's experience at Oberlin only reinforced that struggle was part of everyday life. The college's disciplinary board targeted black students disproportionately. The students had tense run-ins with white locals and classmates. Oberlin's women of color learned not to back down. When a white student in 1851 shouted “vile epithets” at Caroline Wall when there was not enough room on the sidewalk for the two of them, Wall responded by reading a pointed account of the incident in front of the entire class. Caroline's friend Amanda would be O.S.B. Wall's partner in the fight for freedom and equality.
¹³

During the 1850s Wall established himself in the shoe business. He was one of many professionals and tradesmen in a thriving black community, which in a generation had grown to about one fifth of the town's two thousand residents. Oberlin did not just give Wall the opportunity to do business on equal terms with whites—it offered blacks the unheard-of possibility of real political power. In 1857 the town voted John Mercer Langston to be its clerk—a post in which he had recently served for neighboring Brownhelm Township—and appointed him manager of the public schools. He was the first black elected official in the United States.
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