Chapter Seventeen
Fourscore years ago in Washington
“The future of the freedmen is linked with the destiny of Labor in America. Negroes, thank God, are workers.”
New words being added to the song of freedom. In 1867, in the District of Columbia, colored workers came together in a mass meeting. They asked Congress to secure equal apportionment of employment to white and colored labor. Their petition was printed, and a committee of fifteen was appointed to circulate it. Similar meetings were held in Kentucky, Indiana and in Pennsylvania.
A year and a half later, in January, 1869, they called a national convention in Washington. Among the one hundred and thirty delegates from all parts of the country came Henry M. Turner, black political leader of Georgia. Resolutions were passed in favor of universal suffrage, the opening of public lands in the South for Negroes, the Freedman’s Bureau, a national tax for Negro schools, and the reconstruction policy of Congress. They opposed any plan for colonization.
Frederick Douglass was elected permanent president. Resolutions were passed advocating industrious habits, the learning of trades and professions, distribution of government lands, suffrage for all—including women—and “free school systems, with no distinction on account of race, color, sex or creed.”
The January convention, though not primarily a labor group, backed industrial emancipation. Eleven months later a distinctly labor convention met and stayed in session a full week at Union League Hall in Washington.
In February, 1870, the Bureau of Labor ran an article on the need of organized Negro labor. Shortly afterward, the Colored NationalLabor Union came into being, with theNew Era, a weekly paper, its national organ. Frederick Douglass was asked to become editor-in-chief.
People wanted Douglass to go into politics. Rochester, with a population of over sixty thousand white citizens and only about two hundred colored, had sent him as delegate to a national political convention in the fall of 1866. The National Loyalists’ Convention held in Philadelphia was composed of delegates from the South, North and West. Its object was to lay down the principles to be observed in the reconstruction of society in the Southern states.
Though he had been sent by a “white vote,” all was not clear sailing for Douglass. His troubles started on the delegates’ special train headed for Philadelphia. At Harrisburg it was coupled to another special from the southwest—and the train began to rock! After a hurried consultation it was decided that the “Jonah” in their midst had better be tossed overboard. The spokesman chosen to convey this decision to the victim was a gentleman from New Orleans, of low voice and charming manners. “I credit him with a high degree of politeness and the gift of eloquence,” said Douglass.
He began by exhibiting his knowledge of Douglass’ history and of his works, and said that he entertained toward him a very high respect. He assured the delegate from Rochester that the gentlemen who sent him, as well as those who accompanied him, regarded the Honorable Mr. Douglass with admiration and that there was not among them the remotest objection to sitting in convention with so distinguished a gentleman. Then he paused, daintily wiping his hands on a spotless handkerchief. Having tucked the linen back into his pocket, he spread his hands expressively and leaned forward. Was it, he asked, not necessary to set aside personal wishes for the common cause? Before Douglass could answer, he shrugged his shoulders and went on. After all, it was purely a question of party expediency. He must know that there was strong and bitter prejudice against his race in the North as well as in the South. They would raise the cry of social as well as political equality against the Republicans, if the famous Douglass attended this loyal national convention.
There were tears in the gentleman’s voice as he deplored the sacrifices which one must make for the good of the Republican cause. But, he pointed out, there were a couple of districts in the state of Indiana so evenly balanced that a little thing was likely to turn the scale against them, defeat their candidates, and thus leave Congresswithout the necessary two-thirds vote for carrying through the so-badly needed legislation.
“It is,” he ended, lifting his eyes piously, “only the good God who gives us strength for such sacrifice.”
Douglass had listened attentively to this address, uttering no word during its delivery. The spokesman leaned back in his seat. The three delegates who had accompanied him and who had remained standing in the aisle, turned to leave. They stopped in their tracks, however, at the sound of Douglass’ voice. It was a resonant voice, with rich overtones, and his words were heard distinctly by everyone in the car.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “with all due respect, you might as well ask me to put a loaded pistol to my head and blow my brains out as to ask me to keep out of this convention, to which I have been duly elected!”
The Louisianian’s face froze. One of the men in the aisle swore—none too swiftly. Douglass reasoned with them.
“What, gentlemen, would you gain by this exclusion? Would not the charge of cowardice, certain to be brought against you, prove more damaging than that of amalgamation? Would you not be branded all over the land as dastardly hypocrites, professing principles which you have no wish or intention of carrying out? As a matter of policy or expediency, you will be wise to let me in. Everybody knows that I have been fairly elected by the city of Rochester as a delegate. The fact has been broadly announced and commented upon all over the country. If I am not admitted, the public will ask, ‘Where is Douglass? Why is he not seen in the convention?’ And you would find that enquiry more difficult to answer than any charge brought against you for favoring political or social equality.” He paused. No one moved. Their faces remained hard and unconvinced. Douglass sighed. Then his face also hardened. He stood up.
“Well, ignoring the question of policy altogether, I am bound to go into that convention. Not to do so would contradict the principle and practice of my life.”
They left then. The charming gentleman from New Orleans did not bother to bow.
No more was said about the matter. Frederick Douglass was not excluded, but throughout the first morning session it was evident that he was to be ignored.
That afternoon a procession had been planned to start from Independence Hall. Flags and banners lined the way and crowds filled thestreets. Douglass reached the starting point in good time. “Almost everybody on the ground whom I met seemed to be ashamed or afraid of me. I had been warned that I should not be allowed to walk through the city in the procession; fears had been expressed that my presence in it would so shock the prejudices of the people of Philadelphia as to cause the procession to be mobbed.”
The delegates were to walk two abreast. Douglass stood waiting, grimly determined to march alone. But shortly before the signal to start Theodore Tilton, young poet-editor of theNew York Independentand theBrooklyn Worker, came hurrying in his direction. His straw-colored hair was rumpled and his face flushed.
“This way, Mr. Douglass! I’ve been looking for you.”
He grinned as he seized Douglass’ arm and with him pushed well up toward the head of the procession. There they took a place in the line. Tilton gayly ignored the sour faces around them.
“All set, captain, we’re ready to march!” he called.
Douglass tried to murmur something to express his appreciation, but the writer winked at him.
“Watch and see what happens!” he chuckled.
The band struck up and the line began to move. Someone on the sidewalk pointed to the sweeping mane of Douglass’ head and shouted, “Douglass! There’s Frederick Douglass!”
They began to cheer. The cheering was heard by those farther down the street, and heads craned forward. People leaned out of windows overhead to see. They waved their flags and shouted, hailing the delegates of the convention.
And Douglass was the most conspicuous figure in the line. The shout most often heard all along the way was:
“Douglass! Douglass! There is Frederick Douglass!”
After that there was no further question of ignoring Douglass at the convention. But any ambitions which he might have had for a political career cooled. He realized that a thorough-going “politician” might well have acceded to the delegates’ politely expressed wish “for the good of the party,” but he knew that he would never place the good of the party above the good of the people as a whole. After the adoption of the Fourteenth and Fifteen Amendments, both white and colored people urged him to move to one of the many districts of the South where there was a large colored vote and get himself a seat in Congress. No man in the country had a larger following. But the thought of going to live among people simply to gain their votes wasrepugnant to his self-respect. The idea did not square with his better judgment or sense of propriety.
When he was called to Washington to edit theNew Erahe began to turn the thought over in his mind. The problem of what to do with himself after the Anti-Slavery Society disbanded had been taken care of. He was in demand as a lecturer in colleges, on lyceum circuits and before literary societies. Where before he had considered himself well-off with his four-hundred-fifty- to five-hundred-dollar-a-year salary, he now received one hundred, one hundred fifty, or two hundred dollars for a single lecture. His children were grown. Lewis was a successful printer, Rosetta was married, and the youngest son was teaching school on the Eastern Shore of Maryland not far from St. Michaels.
Douglass had campaigned for Ulysses S. Grant because he was fond of, and believed in, Grant. There had been scarcely any contest. The people were sick to death of the constant wrangling which had been going on in Congress. President Johnson’s impeachment had fizzled like a bad firecracker. The kindest thing they said about Johnson was that he was weak. Everybody agreed that what was needed now was a strong hand. So by an overwhelming majority they chose a war hero.
Undoubtedly, Washington would be interesting, reasoned Douglass. It was the center of the hub, the Capital of all the States. He would also be nearer the great masses of his own people. But Anna Douglass—for the first time in thirty years neither overworked nor burdened with cares—was reluctant to leave Rochester.
Douglass provided for his family, but making money had never been his chief concern. Anna had always stretched dollars. The babies were all little together, so Anna could not go out and work. But while they were little, she often brought work home, sometimes without her husband’s knowledge. During the years when runaway slaves hid in their attic, Anna was always there at any hour of the day or night with food, clean clothing, warm blankets; and it was Anna who kept her husband’s shirts carefully laundered, his bag neatly packed. No one knew better than Douglass how Anna carried the countless, minute burdens of the days and nights. He loved her and depended upon her. But, like Anna Brown, she was the wife of a man who belonged to history. So now, though she would have preferred to relax under the big shade tree he had planted years before, enjoy the cool spaciousness of the home which they had made very comfortable,gossip a bit with her neighbors and relish the many friendly contacts she had made in Rochester, she nodded her head.
“If Washington is the place for you, of course we’ll go.” And she smiled at her husband, who was growing more handsome and more famous every day.
Douglass was in his prime. He cut an imposing figure. He knew it and was glad. For he regarded himself as ambassador of all the freedmen in America. He was always on guard—his speech, his manners, his appearance. Now that he could, he dressed meticulously, stopped off at New York on his way to Washington and ordered several suits, saw to it that he was well supplied with stiff white shirts. He intended that when he walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, across Lafayette Square, or through the Capital grounds, men would ask, “Who is he? What embassy is he from?” Sooner or later they would learn that he was “Frederick Douglass, ex-slave!”
Yes, he was proud. And this same naïve pride almost tripped him.
Since the paper needed him at once, it was decided Douglass would go on ahead, find a house, and later they would move their things and Anna would follow him.
He plunged into his work and almost immediately into difficulties. TheNew Erawas not his own paper. It was the national organ of the Colored National Labor Union, and Douglass soon found he was not in step with the union leaders. The only one he knew personally was George Downing of Rhode Island. Even Downing seemed to have developed strange, new ideas.
James H. Morris was an astute and courageous reconstruction leader of North Carolina who saw politics and labor in clear alliance.
“What the South needs is a thorough reconstruction of its classes,” he argued, “and that’s a long way from being a sharp division of white and black.”
“With the ballot the Negro has full citizenship. He can make his way.” Douglass did not grasp the significance of organized labor.
“The unions have been shutting out the black man’s labor all these years.”
“White workers had to learn.”
It must be remembered that by adoption Douglass was New England and Upper New York. Puritan individualism with all its good and bad qualities had sunk deep. He had himself fought for Irishcottiers and British labor, but could not at this time envision black and white workers uniting against a common enemy in the United States.
After a series of what he called “bewildering circumstances,” he purchased the paper and turned it over to Lewis and Frederic, his two printer sons. After a few years they discontinued its publication. The “misadventure” cost him from nine to ten thousand dollars.
Meanwhile, in another world—a world of international intrigue and power politics that took little account of Frederick Douglass—events were shaping themselves “according to plan.” United States expansionists waited until President Grant took office and renewed their efforts to strengthen our hand in the Caribbeans.
The islands of the Caribbean Sea were heavy with potential wealth. Fortunes lay in the rich, black soil; cheap labor was there in the poor, black peoples who had been brought from Africa to work the islands. The key was Santo Domingo—the old Saint Domingue at which Spain, France and Great Britain had clutched desperately.
Since Columbus first landed there December 6, 1492, the history of the island had been written in blood. On one side had been born the second republic in the Western Hemisphere, called Haiti. When U. S. Grant became President of the United States, Haiti had stood for sixty-six years—in spite of the fact that it was looked upon as an anomaly among nations. On the other side of the island was the weaker Santo Domingo. After declaring its independence in 1845, it had been annexed by Spain while the Civil War was keeping the United States busy. When this happened, the “Black Republic” of Haiti sought with more zeal than power to take the place of the United States as defender against aggression by a European power. Santo Domingo did manage to wrench herself from Spain in 1865, but she was far from secure. The need for military bases and coaling stations in the Caribbean was obvious to a President skilled in military tactics. Admirals and generals of many nations had looked with longing eyes on Haiti’s Môle St. Nicolas, finest harbor in the Western world. But the Haitians were in a position to hold their harbor, and meanwhile Santo Domingo’s Samoná Bay was not bad. So President Grant offered the “protection” of the powerful United States to a “weak and defenseless people, torn and rent by internal feuds and unable to maintain order at home or command respect abroad.”
But the ever-watchful Charles Sumner rose in the Senate, and for six hours his voice resounded through the chamber like the wrath ofGod. He set off a series of repercussions against this annexation which reverberated across the country.
Douglass, in the midst of his own perplexities, heard the echoes and defended President Grant. Men working with him, particularly labor men, stared at him in amazement.
“How can you, Douglass!” they exclaimed. “Don’t you see what this means? And how can you side against Sumner? He’s the most courageous friend the black man has in Congress!”
“I’m not against Charles Sumner. Our Senator sees this proposed annexation as a measure to extinguish a colored nation and therefore bitterly opposes it. But even a great and good man can be wrong.”
George Downing, his eyes on Douglass’ earnest, troubled face, thought to himself,How right you are!
Charles Sumner, lying on a couch in the library of his big house facing Lafayette Square, listened with closed eyes while Douglass gently remonstrated. His strength was ebbing. Every one of these supreme efforts drained him of life. Sumner was one of the few men of his day who saw that the Union could yet lose the war. He had been very close to Lincoln in the last days. He was trying to carry out the wishes of his beloved Commander in Chief. He listened to Douglass, who he knew also loved Lincoln, with a frown. He sat up impatiently, tossing aside the light shawl with a snort.
“You’re caught up in a rosy cloud, Douglass. The lovely song of emancipation still rings in your ears drowning all other sounds. You’re due for a rude awakening.” His large eyes darkened. “And I’m afraid it won’t be long in coming!”
It was several days later when Douglass, responding to an invitation from the White House, felt a chill of apprehension. The President greeted him with a blunt question.
“Now, what do you think of your friend, Sumner?” he asked bitterly.
“I think, Mr. President,” said Douglass, choosing his words carefully, “that Senator Sumner is an honest and a valiant statesman. In opposing the annexation of Santo Domingo he believes he is defending the cause of the colored race as he has always done.” Douglass saw the slow flush creeping above the President’s beard. He continued evenly. “But I also think that in this he is mistaken.”
“You do?” There was surprise in the voice.
“Yes, sir, I do. I see no more dishonor to Santo Domingo in making her a state of the American Union than in making Kansas,Nebraska, or any other territory such a state. It is giving to a part the strength of the whole.”
The President relaxed in his chair, a slight smile on his lips. Douglass leaned forward.
“What do you, Mr. President, think of Senator Sumner?”
President Grant’s answer was concise.
“I think he’s mad!”
The Commission which President Grant sent to the Caribbean was one of many. Secretary Seward himself had gone to Haiti in the winter of 1865. And in 1867 Seward had sent his son, then Assistant Secretary of State. But the appointment of Frederick Douglass on Grant’s Commission was a pretty gesture. A naval vessel manned by one hundred marines and five hundred sailors, with the Stars and Stripes floating in the breeze, steaming into Samoná Bay bringing Frederick Douglass and a “confidential reconnaissance commission” of investigation! A reporter from theNew York Worldwent along, and much was made of Douglass’ “cordial relations” with the other members and of the fact that he was given the seat of honor at the captain’s table. It was a delightful cruise.
After thirty-six hours in port, they were ready to leave with the report that the people were “unanimously” in favor of annexation by the United States. Douglass heard nothing of the insurrection going on in the hills, nor of the rival factions bidding for American support, nor of the dollars from New York.
In spite of the commission, however, Horace Greeley and Charles Sumner defeated the bill—a bitter disappointment to certain interests, but far from a knockout blow.
The “old settlers” of Rochester tendered a farewell reception to Frederick Douglass and his family when he took formal leave of the city which had been his home for thirty years. All the old-time Abolitionists who had weathered the long and bitter storm were invited. Gerrit Smith, shrunken and feeble, was there. Joy and sadness sat down together at that board. But everyone was proud of the dark man whom Rochester now acclaimed as her “most distinguished son.”
Gideon Pitts’s father, old Captain Peter Pitts, had been the first settler in the township of Richmond, so Gideon Pitts and his wife were among the sponsors of the affair.
“Those were trying days even in our quiet valley,” Pitts’s eyestwinkled. Douglass was trying to recall the grizzled face. “But we licked ’em!”
It was the chuckle that brought it all back—the house offering shelter from pursuers, his pounding on the door and the old man in his nightshirt and bare feet!
“Mr. Pitts!” He seized his hand. “Of course, it’s Mr. Pitts!” He turned to his wife, “My dear, these are the folks who took me in that night on Ridge Road. You remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Anna smiled. “I’ve always intended to ride out some afternoon and thank you, but—” She made a little rueful gesture, and she and Mrs. Pitts began to chat. They spoke of their children, and Douglass remembered something else.
“You had a little girl—How is she?”
The father laughed proudly. “My little girl’s quite a young lady now. She’s one that knows her own mind, too—belongs to Miss Anthony’s voting society. She says that’s the next thing—votes for women!”
Douglass nodded his head. “She’s right. We’re hoping thenextamendment will make women citizens. Remember me to her, won’t you?”
“We sure will, Mr. Douglass!”
Then they were gone and Douglass said, “Good sound Americans, Anna—people of the land.”
And Anna said a little wistfully, “We’ll miss them.” Deep in her heart, Anna was afraid of Washington.
The house Douglass had taken at 316 A Street, N.E., was not ready, but he wanted Anna close by to supervise repairs and redecorations. They took Lewis with them, leaving Rosetta and her husband in the Rochester home until everything was moved.
Douglass planned to send his twelve bound volumes of theNorth StarandFrederick Douglass’ Paper, covering the period from 1848 to 1860, to Harvard University Library. The curator had requested them for Harvard’s historical files. But first he had to dash off to New Orleans to preside over the Southern States Convention.
P. B. S. Pinchback, Lieutenant-Governor of Louisiana, had invited Douglass to be his guest at the Governor’s Mansion. Indistinguishable from a white man, Pinchback had been educated in the North and had served as a captain in the Union Army. In appearance and actions he was an educated, well-to-do, genial Louisianian—intelligent and capable, but he was a practical politician and he played thepolitician’s game. He might have left New Orleans, gone to France as so many of them did, or even to some other section of the country. He might easily have shrugged off the harness of thecordon bleu, but New Orleans was in his blood. He lived always on the sharp edge, dangerously, while around him swirled a colorful and kaleidoscopic drama. He was by no means a charlatan.
It was April when Douglass came to New Orleans. He was greeted most cordially. “I shall show you my New Orleans and you will not want to leave,” Pinchback promised.
And Douglass was captivated by New Orleans—captivated and blinded. Camellias were in bloom, their loveliness reflected in stagnant waters. Soft, trailing beauty of mosses on damp walls in which stood high, heavy gates. The streets were filled with multicolored throngs—whites and blacks and all the colors in between, old women with piercing bright eyes under flamingtignons, hawkers crying out their wares, extending great trays piled high with figs, brown cakes and steaming jars—the liquid French accents—the smells!
They stepped over the carcass of a dog, which had evidently been floating in the street gutter for some time. “This is the old section,” Pinchback explained. “When we cross Canal Street, you’ll think you’re in New York.”
But there was nothing in New York like any part of New Orleans. The celebrated visitor found himself in gardens where fountains played and tiny, golden birds sipped honeysuckle, where flowering oleanders grew in huge jars and lovely ladies with sparkling eyes trailed black lace.
Into the Governor’s courtyard, with its glistening flagstones, came men for a talk with the great Douglass: Antoine Dubuclet, State Treasurer, a quiet, dark man, who had lived many years in Paris; tall and cultured P. G. Deslone, Secretary of State; Paul Trevigne, who published theNew Orleans Tribune.
Trevigne was not on the best of terms with the Lieutenant-Governor. He bowed stiffly from the waist and hoped that the host would leave him and Douglass alone together. But Pinchback ordered coffee served beside the fountain, and over the thin, painted cup his eyes laughed.
“M. Trevigne does not approve of me,” he explained, turning to Douglass. “He thinks I should take life more vigorously—by the throat. I use other methods.”
Douglass, observing them, realized that here were two men ofvery different caliber. He marveled anew that Pinchback had been able to gain the confidence of the black people of New Orleans.
“Undoubtedly, sir,” Trevigne was saying frankly, “I understand better the more direct methods of our first Lieutenant-Governor.” He turned to Douglass. “His name was Oscar Dunn, and he was the only one of the seven colored men in the Senate two years ago who had been a slave. He was by far the most able.”
Pinchback had been in the Senate then. He studied the tray beside him and finally chose a heart-shaped pastry. He did not look up, but he said, “Oscar J. Dunn died—very suddenly.” His smile flashed. “I prefer to live.”
Trevigne frowned. He continued almost as if the Governor had not spoken.
“Oscar Dunn was responsible for opening public schools to blacks and poor whites alike.”
Douglass roused himself with a start. He looked at his watch.
“I’m sorry—but I’m going to be late. We must go. Let’s continue our visit on the way.” Trevigne welcomed the interruption.
“I’ll send you over in the carriage. And do not worry,” Pinchback lifted himself from the easy chair with languid grace. “The session will not begin on time.”
But the session of the convention had begun when Douglass reached the hall. The efficient secretary was calling the roll.
The convention was not going very well. Division in the Republican ranks grew deeper and broader every day. Douglass blamed Charles Sumner and Horace Greeley who “on account of their long and earnest advocacy of justice and liberty to the blacks, had powerful attractions for the newly-enfranchised class.” He ignored the persistent influence of the National Labor Union and its economic struggle. Douglass pointed to what the Republican party had done in Louisiana—to the legislators he had met. Six years later he was to hear all of them labeled “apes,” “buffoons,” and “clowns.” He was to see the schools Dunn had labored so hard to erect burned to the ground; the painstaking, neat accounts of Dubuclet blotted and falsified; the studied, skilful tacts of Pinchback labeled “mongrel trickery.”
There were those in New Orleans who saw it coming.
“Warmoth,” they warned him, “is the real master of Louisiana. And he represents capital, whose business it is to manipulate the labor vote—white and black.”
“The Republican party is the true workingmen’s party of the country!” thundered Douglass. And what he did was to steer the convention away from unionism to politics—not seeing their interrelation.
And so, as white labor in the North moved toward stronger and stronger union organization, it lost interest in, and vital touch with, the millions of laborers in the South. When the black night came, there was no help.
But all this was later. Douglass returned to Washington singing the praises of Louisiana—its rich beauties and the amazing progress the people were making. He congratulated himself that he had succeeded “in holding back the convention from a fatal political blunder.” His story was carried by theNew York Herald—and pointedly omitted from the columns of theTribune.
He found a letter awaiting him from Harvard: when was he sending on his newspaper files? There was some question of getting them catalogued before summer. Yes, he must attend to that—soon. And he laid the letter to one side.
On June 2, 1872, his house in Rochester burned to the ground. His papers were gone, and Douglass cursed the folly of his procrastination. Rosetta and her husband had managed to get out with a few personal possessions. Household furniture could be replaced, but Anna wept for a hundred precious mementos of the days gone by—little Annie’s cape, the children’s school books, the plum-colored wedding dress and Frederick’s first silk hat.
But Douglass thought only of his newspaper files and how he ought to have sent them to Harvard.
The gods were not yet finished with Frederick Douglass. It was as if they conspired to strip him of the last small vestige of his pride, as if to make sure that henceforth and forevermore he should “walk humble.”
“It is not without a feeling of humiliation that I must narrate my connection with the Freedmen’s Saving and Trust Company,” he wrote, when, later on, he felt he had to put down the whole unfortunate story.
The pathetically naïve account which follows is amazing on many counts. How could this little group of “church members” have expected to find their way within the intricate maze of national banking in the United States? From the start they were doomed to failure. Yet here stands an eternal monument to the fact that the newly emancipated men and women “put their money in banks,” were thrifty and frugal beyond our most rigid demands. For these banks were in theSouth among the masses of people who had just come out of slavery. The one Northern branch was in Philadelphia. Frederick Douglass did not see the reasons for the bank’s failure. He blamed himself and the handful of black men who tried to scale the barricades of big business, only to have themselves broken and left with a corpse on their hands.
This was an institution designed to furnish a place of security and profit for the hard earnings of the colored people, especially in the South. There was something missionary in its composition, and it dealt largely in exhortations as well as promises. The men connected with its management were generally church members, and reputed eminent for their piety. Their aim was to instil into the minds of the untutored Africans lessons of sobriety, wisdom, and economy, and to show them how to rise in the world. Like snowflakes in winter, circulars, tracts and other papers were, by this benevolent institution, scattered among the millions, and they were told to “look” to the Freedmen’s Bank and “live.” Branches were established in all the Southern States, and as a result, money to the amount of millions flowed into its vaults.With the usual effect of sudden wealth, the managers felt like making a little display of their prosperity. They accordingly erected, on one of the most desirable and expensive sites in the national capital, one of the most costly and splendid buildings of the time, finished on the inside with black walnut and furnished with marble counters and all the modern improvements.... In passing it on the street I often peeped into its spacious windows, and looked down the row of its gentlemanly colored clerks, with their pens behind their ears, and felt my very eyes enriched. It was a sight I had never expected to see....After settling myself down in Washington, I could and did occasionally attend the meetings of the Board of Trustees, and had the pleasure of listening to the rapid reports of the condition of the institution, which were generally of a most encouraging character.... At one time I had entrusted to its vaults about twelve thousand dollars. It seemed fitting to me to cast in my lot with my brother freedmen and to help build up an institution which represented their thrift and economy to so striking advantage; for the more millions accumulated there, I thought, the more consideration and respect would be shown to the colored people of the whole country.About four months before this splendid institution wascompelled to close its doors in the starved and deluded faces of its depositors, and while I was assured by its President and its actuary of its sound condition, I was solicited by some of the trustees to allow them to use my name in the board as a candidate for its presidency.So I waked up one morning to find myself seated in a comfortable armchair, with gold spectacles on my nose, and to hear myself addressed as president of the Freedmen’s Bank. I could not help reflecting on the contrast between Frederick the slave boy, running about with only a tow linen shirt to cover him, and Frederick—President of a bank counting its assets by millions. I had heard of golden dreams, but such dreams had no comparison with this reality.My term of service on this golden height covered only the brief space of three months, and was divided into two parts. At first I was quietly employed in an effort to find out the real condition of the bank and its numerous branches. This was no easy task. On paper, and from the representations of its management, its assets amounted to three millions of dollars, and its liabilities were about equal to its assets. With such a showing I was encouraged in the belief that by curtailing the expenses, and doing away with non-paying branches, we could be carried safely through the financial distress then upon the country. So confident was I of this, that, in order to meet what was said to be a temporary emergency, I loaned the bank ten thousand dollars of my own money, to be held by it until it could realize on a part of its abundant securities.[29]
This was an institution designed to furnish a place of security and profit for the hard earnings of the colored people, especially in the South. There was something missionary in its composition, and it dealt largely in exhortations as well as promises. The men connected with its management were generally church members, and reputed eminent for their piety. Their aim was to instil into the minds of the untutored Africans lessons of sobriety, wisdom, and economy, and to show them how to rise in the world. Like snowflakes in winter, circulars, tracts and other papers were, by this benevolent institution, scattered among the millions, and they were told to “look” to the Freedmen’s Bank and “live.” Branches were established in all the Southern States, and as a result, money to the amount of millions flowed into its vaults.
With the usual effect of sudden wealth, the managers felt like making a little display of their prosperity. They accordingly erected, on one of the most desirable and expensive sites in the national capital, one of the most costly and splendid buildings of the time, finished on the inside with black walnut and furnished with marble counters and all the modern improvements.... In passing it on the street I often peeped into its spacious windows, and looked down the row of its gentlemanly colored clerks, with their pens behind their ears, and felt my very eyes enriched. It was a sight I had never expected to see....
After settling myself down in Washington, I could and did occasionally attend the meetings of the Board of Trustees, and had the pleasure of listening to the rapid reports of the condition of the institution, which were generally of a most encouraging character.... At one time I had entrusted to its vaults about twelve thousand dollars. It seemed fitting to me to cast in my lot with my brother freedmen and to help build up an institution which represented their thrift and economy to so striking advantage; for the more millions accumulated there, I thought, the more consideration and respect would be shown to the colored people of the whole country.
About four months before this splendid institution wascompelled to close its doors in the starved and deluded faces of its depositors, and while I was assured by its President and its actuary of its sound condition, I was solicited by some of the trustees to allow them to use my name in the board as a candidate for its presidency.
So I waked up one morning to find myself seated in a comfortable armchair, with gold spectacles on my nose, and to hear myself addressed as president of the Freedmen’s Bank. I could not help reflecting on the contrast between Frederick the slave boy, running about with only a tow linen shirt to cover him, and Frederick—President of a bank counting its assets by millions. I had heard of golden dreams, but such dreams had no comparison with this reality.
My term of service on this golden height covered only the brief space of three months, and was divided into two parts. At first I was quietly employed in an effort to find out the real condition of the bank and its numerous branches. This was no easy task. On paper, and from the representations of its management, its assets amounted to three millions of dollars, and its liabilities were about equal to its assets. With such a showing I was encouraged in the belief that by curtailing the expenses, and doing away with non-paying branches, we could be carried safely through the financial distress then upon the country. So confident was I of this, that, in order to meet what was said to be a temporary emergency, I loaned the bank ten thousand dollars of my own money, to be held by it until it could realize on a part of its abundant securities.[29]
One wonders how the trustees ever managed to pay back that loan before the final crash. But they did pay it.
Gradually I discovered that the bank had, through dishonest agents, sustained heavy losses in the South.... I was, six weeks after my election as president, convinced that the bank was no longer a safe custodian of the hard earnings of my confiding people.
Gradually I discovered that the bank had, through dishonest agents, sustained heavy losses in the South.... I was, six weeks after my election as president, convinced that the bank was no longer a safe custodian of the hard earnings of my confiding people.
Douglass’ next move probably made bad matters worse. He reported to the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Finance that the federal assets of the bank were gone. A commission was appointed to take over the bank, and its doors were closed. Not wishing to take anyadvantage of the other depositors, Douglass left his money to be divided with the assets among the creditors of the bank.
In time—a long time—the larger part of the depositors received most of their money. But it was upon the head of the great Frederick Douglass that the wrath and the condemnation descended.