The Richmond Saga, 1.2
Augusta, Maine
July, 1901
It was an unusually warm day in Augusta, with summertime heat rolling off the Kennebec in great, billowing waves. A few weary Warblers and Thrushes called out from the hidden branches of laden Ash and Basswood, the hot sun darting in between the shadows along the newly cobbled road.
The stately carriage rolled neatly still at Number 11, Summer Street. The horses were immaculately groomed; their harnesses were all brass and dark leather, complimenting the varnished maroon of the elegant cab that seemed altogether suspect against the brick and greenery of Augusta. Neighbors craned their necks and peered down the lane at the strangely extravagant sight, pointing at the golden letters upon the doors of the handsome carriage: “M.M.”
The driver, a black man with a neat moustache and smartly tailored top hat, slid gently from the bench and moved to the carriage door, clicking it open with a gentle side-step.
Number 11, Summer Street was encased by a well-maintained fence, freshly painted white—far from decadent, but well-laid and carefully inspected. Beyond the white fence stood a towering man, nearly six and a half feet, wielding large shears and hunched raised bed of petunias. His white hair was long and matted with sweat, and a large, peppered moustache fell from each side of his chin. He wore mud-stained pants, his suspenders caught over a loose, white shirt with rolled sleeves beyond sunburned arms.
The towering gardener looked to the carriage beyond his petunias without much regard, puffing his moustache and continuing his work.
From the carriage beyond the fence came Michael Monroe, owner of the Richmond Rifles, adorned in tailored finery, helped down the steps by the driver. The old Virginian surveyed the lane with a thoughtful expression, receiving his hat from the driver and looking over the fence to the gardening giant.
“Quite the display,” the tall worker proclaimed in a faded down-east grumble. He set the shears aside, wiping his brow and reaching for a large spade.
Monroe dipped his head and touched the brim of his hat in return. “Chief Justice. A pleasure, to be sure.”
The old man grunted at that, pausing and reaching for a handkerchief in his back pocket. He brought the cloth to his face and coughed deeply, his shoulders trembling. He shook his head as the fits subsided, wiping his moustache and returning the kerchief to his pocket. “Forgive the informality, Mister Monroe. Much to repair before I return to Washington. You’ll have to excuse the common grit we Mainers hold dear—quite opposed to your Virginian sensibility.” He coughed again.
Monroe returned a polite smile, nodding to his driver as Chief Justice Melville Fuller came around to open the fence. A few children had gathered to observe the dark-skinned servant, who handed Monroe a brass-topped walking stick and stepped away smartly.
“Come in, then,” Fuller grumbled, turning toward the door and hobbling up the steps. “I’ll have lemonade sent up. You’ll settle for Mary’s handiwork. No velvet negroes in Augusta, I’m afraid.”
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Fuller’s library was extraordinary, even by southern standards. Great oaken shelves lined the walls of the velvet-draped study, where the matted and dirt-covered Justice cut Monroe a cigar and bid him sit upon an opposing armchair.
Monroe struck his own match, puffing the cigar thoughtfully and waving the flame away with a grateful nod.
“Baseball.” Fuller nearly growled the word, throwing one leg over the other and shaking his head. “You sailed your gold-lettered wagon and team of negroes a thousand miles north to talk to the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court—on his holiday—about baseball.”
Monroe nodded respectfully, a small grin.
A thin, high-cheeked old woman strolled into the study, carrying a platter with tumblers and a tall pitcher of lemonade. Monroe rose as she entered, nodding gratefully. The woman frowned in return, her upper lip curling as the tray fell upon the bureau. She lifted her contemptuous gaze to the Chief Justice and turned on a heel, strolling out of the study.
“Forgive my wife,” the Justice mused from his chair, puffing on the cigar. Monroe waved him away.
“In my experience, Chief Justice, one finds disdain for southern negroes wherever I bring them, for a multitude of reasons.” Monroe sat again, his eyes leading to the marble bust of James Bowdoin upon the bureau. “I take it your wife shares the general disposition of your alma mater.”
Fuller grumbled and tapped ashes from the cigar into a porcelain tray. “Ain’t your negroes, Monroe. Disdain for Virginians, in general, is embedded in the cultural soul of down-easters. Do not take it personally.”
Offering a polite chuckle, Monroe shook his head. “Very well, then, Chief Justice. Let’s talk baseball.”
Fuller glowered. “A vain and wasteful indulgence. Boys who ought to be studying Plato and Augustine by firelight are engaged in loiterous broomstick-slapping and back-alley ball-tossing. The great dumbing down of the race, Mister Monroe. Mark my words.”
“Perhaps so,” Monroe answered with a soft shrug. “Never cared for the game, myself. But one need nod study Plato to understand the vessel by which that ball-tossing conveys our society down the river of time.”
“Speak plainly, man,” Fuller growled. “I despise metaphors.”
“Money and progress, sir.” Monroe leaned forward, a soft smile. “The Legacy Baseball League captures the imagination of the nation in ways Rockefeller and Carnegie only dreamed of. Infinite profits, Chief Justice, and all the pain and struggle of our era—all the war and hate and dreams and inequity—all decided on a green field with four white bags and a wooden bat.”
Frowning, the old Chief Justice glared at Monroe, reaching once again for his handkerchief as he rolled into another series of fitful coughs. Monroe held on to the edges of his hat, waiting quietly.
“You speak rather liberally of inequity, sir, for a man whose hat is held by a tailcoat darkie.”
Monroe sighed softly, musing from behind his cigar. “Virginia has always valued the negro for his strength and will to survive. We shall not contemplate the assault on natural order and divine law—let us put these aside.”
Monroe rose from his chair, setting down the cigar and clasping his hands gently behind his back as he strode to the nearest bookshelf, observing the well-kept volumes of Emerson with a soft smile.
“Think you I made this ball,” Monroe recited distantly, running a hand along the volumes, “a field of havoc and war, where tyrants great and tyrants small, might harry the weak and the poor?”
“Think ‘ye,’” Fuller corrected with a gruff puff of his moustache. He doused his own cigar with a frown. “You’re a cunning fellow, Monroe. Far beyond the meddling, money-grubbing deviant that most in Washington see you to be. No, Monroe, you are something far more dangerous. A true visionary—and a threat to the beating heart of republican perpetuity itself.”
Monroe shrugged softly, lifting his hand from the books and turning to face Fuller.
“How hard you have struggled for republican perpetuity, Chief Justice. Bearing our Constitution like Atlas up the mountain.” He smiled ironically, striding over to pour a glass of lemonade while Fuller fumed, looking up at the man. “Yet you say you despise metaphors. So let us speak plainly.”
Monroe drank from the glass, satisfied, swirling the remnant and observing it with care. “You will not overturn the Virginia Assembly’s decision, Chief Justice. This, we both know. However, you will find that the Legacy Baseball League is in direct violation of the Equal Protection Clause. You will offer them a choice: create and maintain a separate-but-equal league for negroes or be subject to the Law. And when you do, negroes will flock to their darkie ballparks like cattle set to feed upon the plains.” He set the glass down hard upon the bureau.
Fuller stared in disbelief at the man, his forehead red with rage. Before he could speak, however, Monroe continued.
“You call me dangerous, sir—and perhaps you are right. One gift I’ve had, from a young age, is a clear and unblemished perception for the reality of things. A vision of certitude few can know. This ability grants me many friends in Washington that others lack the vision to maintain. And in this gift, Chief Justice, I see you for what you really are. I cannot bribe you—your kind does not care for money, and your character is above reproach. But I will take the one thing your kind cares for, Melville Fuller.”
Monroe donned his hat and retrieved his walking stick, rapping the brass end against the stone bust of James Bowdoin. “Legacy.”
Fuller did not rise. His eyes remained fixed in a hateful grimace upon Monroe, who bowed his head politely and turned, walking out of the study. As he departed, Melville Fuller’s coughs rang from the oaken bookshelves and mahogany walls like a funeral knell.