 | Saratoga in 1901 |  |
THE BLOOD OF HARRY LEE.
Congress Hall, July 20.
Right here, while all around is
fashion and frivolity, I stop to tell
you the story of Robert Jackson,
our head-waiter. The records of
slavery are full of romantic incidents,
full of feats of love, full of buried
hopes and splendid triumphs. Their
record is fast fading away, and in a
quarter of a century more, none will
believe the stories which are now
told of the Southern blacks in the
time of slavery. Mrs. Stowe has
left the only great records of the trials and tribulations of these
children of bondage.
THE STORY—CALHOUN AND WEBSTER'S BIG HEARTS.
Year after year Robert Jackson has been the second waiter
at the Grand Union, and now he is head-waiter at Congress
Hall; but the careless crowds that frequent this mammoth
hostelry do not know that through his veins courses the proudest
Virginia blood.
Robert is a small, well-made quadroon, fashioned, perhaps,
in about the same mould as Stephen A. Douglass, for his head
closely resembles that of the Little Giant. His grandfather was
Gen. Harry Lee, of Revolutionary light-horse cavalry fame, and
his mother was a slave woman named Jenny, a maid of Mrs.
Lee. Soon after the birth of William Jackson, the head-waiter's
father, Jenny was sold to Col. Stewart, of Frederick county,
Maryland. The boy William showed extraordinary intelligence,
and became the pet of his master, and on the death of Col.
Stewart found himself free by a clause in the will. William
went immediately to Washington, where he had been many
times with his master. There he met John McLean, Postmaster-General
under Martin Van Buren, and a friend of his old
master. Judge McLean appointed him a messenger in the
Post-office Department at a salary of $600 per annum.
While a messenger in the Postoffice Department, William
Jackson, our head-waiter's father, met a beautiful long-haired
octoroon, the slave of old Judge John Stewart of Baltimore.
The slave girl's name was Rachel, and she came to attend Miss
President Van Buren's receptions. William lost his heart with
the dusky maid, and soon went to Baltimore to get Judge
Stewart, who owned her, to consent to their marriage.
“No, sir,” said the Judge indignantly, “Rachel is a slave, and
she must marry a slave. If she marries a free nigger she will
be running away herself; and, besides, I don't know when I
may want to sell her to the New Orleans traders.”
“Then I can never marry her?”
“Never, until somebody buys her from me,” replied the Judge.
Rachel was sent to the Frederick county farm, and thither
William went in the night to hold a consultation with her.
First it was resolved to run away. But there was no chance of
success. The Fugitive Slave Law was in effect; passes were
required by the slaves on the plantation, and to run away was
surely to be caught, returned, and then a dreadful whipping
followed.
“What can we do?” sobbed Rachel.
“I know,” replied William, “I will buy you myself.”
“But you have no money.”
“I can work and earn it,” replied the determined lover.
“How much will you take for Rachel?” he asked of Judge
Stewart the next day,
“Well, a thousand dollars will buy her,” replied the hardhearted
Judge.
William went to work—every cent was saved, he even going
on foot into Frederick county by night to see Rachel, where they
held solemn consultations and hoped only for the time when
he could buy her and own her and make her his wife.
Think of that, mercenary beaux, heartless fortune hunters of
Congress Hall—think of toiling night and day, and then think
of paying your last cent for the love of a woman.
Two years rolled around, and nine hundred dollars gladdened
the sight of William Jackson.
Christmas came.
“What shall I give you for Christmas this year, William?”
asked the good old Postmaster-General of his trusty messenger.
“Anything, Mr. Secretary.”
“But what would you like most?”
Then William told the story of his and Rachel's troubles—
how he was afraid she would be sold, how he loved her dearly,
and how he lacked still a hundred dollars to buy her.
The old Postmaster-General took off his specs, wiped his eyes,
then put them on again. Then he fumbled in his pockets.
William a hundred dollars.
Too happy to live, William started for Judge Stewart's.
“Here, Master John,” said he, with his eyes all aglow with
joy, “here is the thousand dollars—now I want Rachel.”
“My God! William, you don't tell me so!” exclaimed the
Judge. “Why, I sold Rachel yesterday for $1,200, to go to
Mobile.”
“When is she going?” asked William, nervously.
“She's gone already—went yesterday. She'd be in Lynchburg
in three days, by the boat.”
Broken hearted and crushed in spirit, William hurried back
to Judge McLean in Washington. The Judge heard his story.
Daniel Webster and John C. Calhoun were in the Judge's room,
and they both took a deep interest.
“Let's raise the money and send William after her,” said the
generous Webster.
“He would be seized a dozen times as a fugitive,” said the
Judge, “and they'd sell him, too.”
“I'll send my private secretary,” said Mr. Webster, and so he
did.
There was no telegraph then, nor cars, but the Secretary took
the Potomac river boat, and with $1,200, partly contributed by
William Jackson's friends in the Department, overtook Rachel,
showed Mr. Calhoun's letter, endorsed by several Virginians,
bought her and brought her back. Calhoun, Webster, and Judge
McLean saw them married the next week.
Their son, Robert Jackson, afterwards waited on Webster and
Calhoun in their old age at the old Indian Queen Hotel in
Washington, now called the Metropolitan, where, in 1834, he
met Mrs. Joseph C. Luther, a present habituée of Congress Hall,
on her wedding tour. Mrs. Luther took Robert to Swansea,
Massachusetts, instructed him, and a few years afterwards he
made an engagement at the Union Hotel. During the winter
he catered for those eccentric bachelors in New York, Mr. T. H.
Faile, Mr. Edward Penfold, or Mr. Robert McCrosky. Only
the former survives. He caters for New Yorkers in the winter
at 206 Waverley Place. Robert has perhaps the largest
acquaintance of any one in Saratoga. He knows old Presidents
and scions of royalty, knows distinguished savants, poets, statesmen,
and historians. He lives in a beautiful vine-clad cottage
on Washington street, in Saratoga, where the guests of Congress
Hall frequently call upon his wife, who is one of the neatest
housekeepers in Saratoga.
| Saratoga in 1901 | |