Rebels Against God: A novel of murder, politics, and abolition in 19th century Virginia

By Scott McIntosh and Susan McIntosh

"Rebels Against God" is a meticulously researched historical novel set in 1800s Virginia, where the noble words of the Declaration of Independence clash with the harsh realities of slavery. Virginia's powerful planters, unwilling to relinquish their slave-owning privileges, challenge the founding principles of the nation. As Northern states lean towards abolition, one man in Virginia dares to stand against the tide.

In 1806, founding father and abolitionist Chancellor George Wythe shook the foundations of Virginia's slaveholding society with a groundbreaking judicial opinion. In the case of Wright v. Hudgins, Wythe declared three enslaved women free, asserting freedom as the birthright of all humans. Supported by the Virginia Declaration of Rights, his decision was a beacon of hope for many, but a threat to others. Weeks later, Wythe and his mixed-race student—rumored to be the son of President Thomas Jefferson and his slave Sally Hemings—were murdered. Although a trial followed, no one was convicted, and the records were destroyed in the Civil War, leaving the case an unsolved mystery.

"Rebels Against God" immerses readers into the investigation led by Samuel Morrison, an anti-slavery pamphleteer, and Elizabeth Pleasants, a former slave. They navigate the treacherous waters of racial and political tensions to unveil the shocking truth behind the murders and the ensuing cover-up. This historical mystery provides a compelling resolution to the unsolved murder of George Wythe, shedding light on the dark side of America's founding era.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350909098

Book preview

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Copyright © 2023 by Scott McIntosh and Susan L. McIntosh

All rights reserved.

First U. S. Edition 2023

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are historical individuals portrayed fictitiously.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-908-1

eBook iSBN: 979-8-35090-909-8

Rebels Against God is dedicated to Michael Brown. He deserved more than he got, no matter who he was or where he came from.

He who knowingly acts against justice is a rebel against God and a premeditated murderer of mankind.

— George Wythe

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

— Thomas Jefferson

Table of Contents

Cast of Characters

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter One Abolition

Chapter Two Between Battles

Chapter Three A Perfect Chameleon

Chapter Four Infamy

Chapter Five Fixes

Chapter Six Rebels Against God

Chapter Seven Murder

Chapter Eight Control

Chapter Nine Illusion

Chapter Ten Investigation

Chapter Eleven Investigation Part Two

Chapter Twelve Reckoning

Chapter Thirteen Powerful People

Chapter Fourteen Homer and The President at Monticello

Chapter Fifteen Team Homer

Chapter Sixteen Deception and Revelation

Chapter Seventeen Choices

Epilogue Acquittal

Historical Note

Appendix: Michael Brown’s Mystery

Cast of

Characters

Richmond, Virginia, Spring 1806

Fictional characters are marked as (f).

Historical characters are marked as (h).

MAIN CHARACTERS

Lydia Broadnax (h) - A freed slave, manager of George Wythe’s household at Wythe’s home in Richmond, Virginia.

Michael Brown (h) - George Wythe’s mixed-race student, living at George Wythe’s home in Richmond, Virginia.

Malcolm Buchanan (f) - Race horse trainer at Tree Hill Plantation stables near Richmond, Virginia.

Isaac Gooch (f) - Anti-abolition customer at Pale Horse Alehouse.

Cosmo Gunn (f) - Head groom at Tree Hill Plantation stables and business partner with Silas Burke.

Small Homer (f) - Orphaned stable boy at Tree Hill Plantation stables and messenger for Cosmo Gunn and Silas Burke.

Thomas Jefferson (h) - Third President of the United States.

Dr. James McClurg (h) - Prominent physician practicing medicine in Richmond, Virginia and former mayor of that city.

Samuel Morrison (f) - Political journalist, pamphleteer and friend of George Wythe.

Elizabeth Pleasants (f) - A freed slave and political pamphleteer from Richmond, Virginia, lately living and writing in Washington D. C.

Edmund Randolph (h) - Former Attorney General of the United States, former Secretary of State of the United States, former Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia, practicing attorney in Richmond, Virginia.

William Rose (h) - Jailer at Henrico, Virginia County Jail.

George Wythe Sweeney (h) - George Wythe’s great-nephew, living at George Wythe’s home in Richmond, Virginia.

Aisling Wilson (f) - Edmund Randolph’s law clerk.

George Wythe (h) - Chancellor of Richmond Court of Chancery, former law tutor to Thomas Jefferson and other prominent Virginia statesmen.

THE CABAL

Robert St. John Barnhill (of the Carolina Barnhills) (f) - Virginia Tidewater planter with old family ties to South Carolina.

Silas Burke (f) - Virginia Tidewater planter, proprietor at Eaton Hill Farms.

William Houlder Hudgins (f) - Virginia Tidewater planter and Respondent in the case of Hudgins v. Wright.

Ann Carter Staunton (f) - Widowed Virginia Tidewater planter.

Bishop Cuthbert Tunstall (f) - Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the Commonwealth of Virginia.

SECONDARY CHARACTERS

Charles Blount (f) - Henrico County Deputy Clerk.

Governor William H. Cabell (h) - Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia.

Mayor William DuVal (h) - Mayor of Richmond, Virginia.

Peter Hemings (h) - Thomas Jefferson’s enslaved chef.

Black John (f) - Thomas Jefferson’s enslaved servant.

Robert and Mrs. Michie (h) - Married proprietors of the Michie Tavern.

Philip Norborne Nicholas (h) - Attorney General of the Commonwealth of Virginia and Edmund Randolph’s brother-in-law.

Peter Tinsley (h) - Clerk of the Court for the High Court of Chancery in Richmond, Virginia.

Thomas Tarleton Webb (h) - An acquaintance of George Wythe Sweeney.

William Wirt (h) - Attorney practicing law in Richmond, Virginia.

Introduction

Richmond, Virginia was no wholesome place in the year 1806. Vice spilled from its back alleys, alehouses, gambling halls, and horse tracks. Gambling debt blossomed among the gentleman’s class. State-sponsored, race-based, hereditary African slavery left its mark on the lives of nearly every resident of Richmond. A large, enslaved population perpetually threatened revolt. All of this, taken together, made the streets and neighborhoods of Richmond violent and explosive. Residents were fearful and suspicious. It was not a place or time to stick your neck out for difficult or unpopular causes.

Abolition was the most unpopular and difficult of causes. Nonetheless, from his courtroom in Richmond, eighty-year-old Chancellor George Wythe was practicing an unusually effective form of judicial abolition. During his court’s 1806 spring session, Judge Wythe decided the case of Hudgins v. Wright, and with it, began to nudge the law in Virginia toward ending slavery altogether.

Weeks later, George Wythe was dead. Most thought he was murdered, yet there were never any convictions. His funeral and burial procession were reported to have been larger and more elaborate than those of George Washington.

The story of the last few months of Chancellor George Wythe’s long and distinguished life, and his death, are not well understood. Critical legal and historical records have disappeared. Contemporary accounts lead to more questions than answers. Why did Chancellor Wythe, and his promising young mixed-race student Michael Brown, die so suddenly and violently? By whose hand?

George Wythe is most often remembered as a beloved law tutor to the much better-known Thomas Jefferson. Wythe was America’s first law professor. Before removing to Richmond in 1779, he was a respected fixture in the public life of graceful colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. His elegant home still stands as an iconic structure in that amazing, restored village. Wythe was a signer of the Declaration of Independence. Students of American history may have been taught all of that about George Wythe. Yet, the tales of Wythe’s life and his death hold far greater treasure for students of America’s past.

Beyond the mystery of the deaths, the most curious questions involve George Wythe’s student Michael Brown. Where was he born? Who were his parents, and where is his body buried? How did he come to live and study with George Wythe? There are no answers.

George Wythe and Michael Brown did die in the spring of 1806. Both deaths were widely presumed to be homicides. The records of the actual investigation, pre-trial posturing, and trial of the man accused of murdering George Wythe, are said to have burned during the Civil War. No one ever faced trial for the murder of Michael Brown.

We do know the outcome of George Wythe’s murder trial, yet the outcome creates more questions than it resolves. Little that is reliably known about these events sets well with either common sense or legal intuition. So, we two attorneys began to speculate, as attorneys will, from a lawyerly point of view.

Our approach was that of criminal defense counsel, spit-balling on behalf of the accused murderer. Admittedly, we enjoyed the golden advantage of hindsight. The question was, how might we put together an alternative theory of identity, motive, and guilt, that answers broader questions and is more compelling than the theory under which the client was charged? To do this, we were forced to work within the contemporary and historical record, meager as it is. We applied basic common sense to judge plausibility.

Rebels Against God is a fictional account of events surrounding the deaths of George Wythe and Michael Brown as they might have occurred. As far as we know, there is nothing in the book that could not, in reality, have happened. It is a tale that fits within the incomplete historical record. The book offers an entertaining possibility that fills the gaps of a fascinating story. Yet it is, in large part, fiction, and it only develops one possible alternative - the one we chose to follow.

Rebels Against God seeks to open minds, and stimulate questions, consideration, and debate. We did not mean to find an unassailable resolution to the many mysteries still hanging in the air. That would take all the fun out of it. So, as you read, we invite you to be the judge of what the story might have been, and who might be responsible for the murders of George Wythe and Michael Brown.

Prologue

Pleasants Farm

Henrico County, Virginia

Autumn 1798

A sudden summer whirlwind nearly blew the wispy little girl off her bare feet. Her exposed legs stung from the sharp grains of whipping sand. This was a willow shoot, as much as it was a young girl. Uncle Raphael liked to say she was hard to see when she turned sideways. Her thin, sharp body cut the wind like a knife, and she would not yield.

Dust darkened the courtyard, and it was difficult to see. The girl sheltered her eyes with her right hand as she kept her faded yellow frock from blowing up with the left. Squinting through the swirling debris, she saw flashes of people either running for cover or standing still, leaning into the wind, locked in a losing battle against nature. Everything productive stopped and would not restart so long as the wind continued to peel the breeze off the dark, threatening thunderstorm to the south.

Before nature raised this particular whirligig, a different kind of whirlwind was churning the ground of the Pleasants Farm slave courtyard. The world had already been overcome with a cloud of fine, choking dust. This was a human whirlwind, fueled by the frenetic tumult of men and women and children all in motion at the same time. Everyone was on the move.

Elizabeth was a slave. She had been born that way. Sold once, she found herself at Pleasants Farm some years ago. She was only now learning to count, so she couldn’t say exactly when she came to this place or how old she was when she arrived. Elizabeth’s mother and two brothers were with her, but they died shortly after the three of them had been sold to John Pleasants. Elizabeth never really understood what it was that had taken her mother and her young brothers, only that she was alone afterward.

As the wind blew, Elizabeth persistently braced herself against the relentless, whirling force. Then, more suddenly than it began, it stopped. This particular whirlwind was over, and a frantic courtyard came back to life. Carts were loaded with personal items and tools, screaming babies, small livestock caged and hanging off the railings or carried by children trotting alongside. Once again, dust was rising to the sky. A community was leaving this place, heading somewhere else.

Out of all of the mixed-up sounds of the courtyard, there came to Elizabeth’s keen young ears, a clear voice, speaking directly to her. Those are the ones that are leavin’, Elizabeth. They say they have somewhere else to go, but I’m not so sure. I trust some of ‘em may just end up right back here after a time. That’s alright. But, it won’t be like it was. Uncle Raphael had quietly appeared out of the dust at Elizabeth’s side. The young girl determined that Raphael must have noticed her obvious bewilderment and stopped to help her sort it out. Uncle Raphael wasn’t Elizabeth’s uncle, but many of the orphaned slave children called him uncle because they had no family of their own. He played his part with joy and was well-loved for generosity of time, food, and spirit. Raphael was a slave, a teacher and a grand preacher of the gospel.

Elizabeth hoped that Uncle Raphael would be able to make some sense of all this chaos that had broken out around her. If anyone could, he would be the one. To little Elizabeth, the whole world of Pleasants Farm seemed to be disintegrating. All the pieces falling away from each other and moving off in different directions. As the activity in the courtyard swirled in confusion and chaos around them, Elizabeth lifted her gaze and complained to the tall, solid figure hovering above her.

Uncle Raphael, I have tried to understand just what is going on here at this farm. People say we are free now. But, what were we before? What does ‘free’ mean? I can tell by watching all this and how they are all grinning away, that ‘free’ must be a mighty good thing. Am I right? Elizabeth held her gaze upward at Uncle Raphael. She used her small dark hand to shield the sun and dust from her eyes, stubbornly awaiting a response.

For a moment, Raphael stared down at her. Then, he bent at his waist, placed his hands on his knees, and looked directly into the eyes of the confused, but entirely courageous little girl. He stared hard at Elizabeth and said, You don’t know what free is, because you don’t know what slave is, do you? Little girl, you don’t know anything other than this here life, on this here farm. Bought and sold, told what to do, fed and clothed, sorta. Uncle Raphael glanced with dismay at Elizabeth’s bony legs, threadbare frock, and bare feet. He hung his head and continued, And kept out of sight. You have no earthly idea what lies out there. Pointing to the horizon, Raphael said, You know, who are the other folk that are out there? And what are the things that they do?

Elizabeth didn’t entirely follow what Raphael meant, and somehow, she felt stupid, and she didn’t like to feel stupid. She stood up straight and declared what she knew. Yes, I do know about what’s out yonder! Them are the white folk out there. That’s what’s out there. They ain’t no good to mess with and it’s a good thing that they keep outta here. Isn’t that so?

Raphael laughed and shook his head. He asked the young orphan in front of him, Do you know that it’s them white people out there that make all the decisions about your life? It is they that can buy you and sell you. Tell you what to do and who to marry and snatch your children from you as they please.

Elizabeth had grown very serious at this kind of talk. She knitted her brows and squinted up at Uncle Raphael. After thinking hard for a moment, she said, Uncle Raphael, nobody tells me anything about nothing. Nobody bothers too. I got no kin, no friends, belong to no one. So, why don’t you tell me just how it is that I am supposed to know the answers to what you asked me?

Raphael laughed again and the thought occurred to him that it might be a welcome thing to have this energetic young urchin scurrying around the home that he and Mrs. Raphael had made at Pleasants Farm. Seeing the deep curiosity welling up in the little girl’s eyes, Raphael said, Well, it’s true, squirt. Or, it was true, until that fine old man Judge George Wythe decided to set you free, child. See, that old Quaker John Pleasants, who used to own this farm, and us, decided we ought all to become free upon his death. But, the other white folk didn’t like that and they said, no sir. They weren’t of a mind to let anybody go free. Well, finally, good old Judge George Wythe took up the case, and now, those of us whose names are included on a particular list have been made free, Elizabeth. Free.

Elizabeth looked up at Uncle Raphael with great wonder and determination. She repeated her original question, What is ‘free’, Uncle Raphael? She stomped her bare foot. Then out of nowhere, what seemed like the most important question in the world occurred to her. Am I on that list, Uncle Raphael? Did you look? Am I on it?

Raphael smiled and replied, Yes, child, I saw your name on that list. Elizabeth, the orphan girl. I figured nobody else would be looking that up for you. Mrs. Raphael sent me out here to find you and bring you back, you little firefly. We’ve got to make sure all the ‘i’s are dotted and such as that, you see? So, pick up that little pack of yours and follow me. Mrs. Raphael and I will get you straight. He smiled at the waif, then gave a stern look, turned, and began to disappear into the dust and tumult.

For a moment, Elizabeth just stood still, rooted to the same spot, her tattered yellow frock and unruly chocolate-colored hair blowing wildly in the breeze. She was waiting for a sign from God or somebody showing what she should do. She watched Raphael walk away, and her tiny heart began to break. Should she go? Was he just going to walk away without her?

Sensing that there was no little girl following after him, Uncle Raphael stopped and turned. He slid his hands into the chest pockets of his overalls and yelled back at Elizabeth, Well, c’mon, girl, you’re a free woman now, you got places to go and people to meet! Raphael paused, and a giant grin crossed his face. He added, And I think you have letters to learn!

Letters to learn, Elizabeth whispered to herself in pure amazement. Letters to learn. Uncle Raphael just said he would teach her the letters. But, that was against the rules. Maybe, she wondered, it might not be against the rules anymore. Maybe, learning the letters is part of being free.

Like a bird on the wing, Elizabeth bent, snatched up her satchel, and raced toward Raphael, dodging cats, dogs, carts, and freed slaves as she flew by, the floppy pack trailing in the dusty air behind her. As she ran, Elizabeth screamed across the courtyard at Uncle Raphael one more stubborn time, What is ‘free’, Uncle Raphael?

Chapter One

Abolition

Commonwealth of Virginia State House

Chancellor George Wythe’s Chancery Courtroom

Richmond, Virginia

Spring 1806

The courtroom was packed and stifling. It wasn’t so much an overbearing heat, there was just not enough air. What there was, seemed secondhand, like other people’s stale, used-up breath instead of fresh, life-giving oxygen. There were far too many onlookers standing inside the courtroom proper and more stuffed every door, obstructing any chance of ventilation. The small basement windows allowed hazy indirect light into the room, but little fresh air could move through into the courtroom. The thick, hot air was still. The ceilings were low, and it had begun to smell bad.

No one was happy. Samuel Morrison certainly was not happy. He was sweating and a little nauseous, but he had a proper purpose for enduring this and for a newspaperman, that purpose was a good one. Morrison needed to see and hear for himself just how much further into chaos this old judge intended to cast the City of Richmond, the great Commonwealth of Virginia, and the still toddling United States of America. It was the spring of 1806, and Chancellor George Wythe was stubbornly trying to kill off African slavery in his native and much beloved Commonwealth of Virginia. This was no small undertaking. Virginia was home to half of the entire slave population of the South.

In a matter of moments, a thin, round-headed, somewhat stooped gentleman would enter the courtroom. This was the judge, but in this Court of Chancery, his official title was Chancellor. The old man would slowly take his seat at the bench near the front of the ennobled judicial chamber. Once he settled himself, Chancellor George Wythe intended to deliver to the crowd what they had come to hear. He would begin to read aloud his opinion in the case currently before his court, that of Hudgins v. Wright. Although the crowd had come to hear the opinion, it was clear that they had not come to agree with it.

The case of Hudgins v. Wright was a freedom suit. An enslaved woman named Jackey Wright had sued for freedom for herself, and her two daughters based on their claim of descent from Indian women. Indian slavery had been abolished in Virginia many years earlier. Through her lawyers, Jackey Wright argued that she and her children were free persons since they descended from a free Indian mother, rather than an enslaved African mother.

As he wiped a handkerchief across his forehead, Samuel Morrison heard someone call his name over the low annoying buzz of the courtroom. So, Morrison! What keeps a keen newspaper hound like yourself here, with your keen little eyes fixed up this one particular tree? I do not believe that it could be any more unpleasant in this room. Besides, you already know how the old man is going to come down, do you not? You are merely interested in the spectacle, I suppose.

Morrison heard the voice floating in from his left and slightly behind him. Before he had a chance to turn, a well-dressed young lawyer slithered and bumped his way to a place next to him. The young man continued gravely, I see by your morning byline, Mr. Morrison, that the sub-sheriff arrested three more free negroes last night. We are told that they were plotting against us all. Dangerous times. It points toward a painfully hot summer to come.

Samuel Morrison, appreciative that someone had read his newspaper story, replied, Indeed it does, sir. Indeed, it does. But then, I have heard, that the Chancellor intends to turn up the heat on the slave owner, not the slave. His point is that this nation’s great pronouncements upon liberty and equality require a presumption that all men are free. Judge Wythe will say that it should be the burden of the man who wishes to own another man to prove some extraordinary right to do so.

The eager young lawyer opened his mouth and drew breath for a reply but was denied the chance. One of the men that he had just jostled out of the way, a particularly short and wide yeoman, had already leaped to the bait. With a rumbling heartfelt declaration from deep in his substantial belly, the yeoman declared, "It is the runaway slave who must prove that he is free! If he wants his freedom. That is settled law. How could it be otherwise? Will it now be the reasonable and good master who must prove to the world that his property is, in fact, his own?"

Again, before the young lawyer could join the battle, his reply was outpaced. This time, however, it was the refined clip of a gentleman’s drawl that put a finer point on the question. An elegantly attired wiry little aristocrat interjected with an air of solid authority, Gentlemen, gentlemen, listen to me. At a time when black men and women, free and slave, are working together under cover of darkness to murder us, at such a time, sir, is it proper for our most scholarly Chancellor Wythe to experiment with his high-flying legal ideas? Does he intend to put spark to the tinder? To encourage the black slave to believe that perhaps one day he might be freed because his master keeps poor records? Records that might easily be destroyed in a fire, for instance. A fire set by wild, murderous, rebellious African slaves, perhaps. Well, we who are here today, I am sure, say, no! It is not proper, and it should not be done.

The men standing near enough to hear this performance grumbled in agreement. Samuel Morrison was getting the idea that word of what old George Wythe planned to do this afternoon had already been spreading among the citizens of Richmond. Yet, they were missing the explosive heart of what Wythe would announce. It also appeared that the reaction was not generally positive. No surprise there, Morrison thought.

Samuel Morrison was acquainted with the man who had just then passionately defended the institution of African slavery. He was an opinionated southern aristocrat named Silas Burke and his pro-slavery views were well known. Lacking the discipline that would have been required to avoid inflaming the little man, Samuel Morrison decided to incite him further. Morrison spoke cheerfully with a native Scottish brogue. His sarcastic tone made clear the differences between the two men.

Looking directly into Silas Burke’s small black eyes, Morrison said, My dear Mr. Burke, what a pleasant surprise to see you here. Are ye joining the rest of us, witnessing the forward movement of our great society as we continue to climb up and out of the foul medieval backwaters of human bondage? He knew exactly what would most certainly and painfully irritate this slick grandee and accusing him of standing in favor of further progress toward abolition would do the trick. Morrison ignored Burke’s scowling eyes and continued, "I believe Chancellor Wythe is about to remind us all that when our mutual distinguished friend, George Mason, wrote the words, ‘all men are, by nature, equally free and independent’, and then inserted those words into our most dearly cherished Virginia Declaration of Rights, Mr. Mason actually meant that all men, not just some, are created equal. Dearie me! Imagine that!" Morrison grinned broadly at Silas Burke.

Silas Burke made a face as if he was sniffing something dead and putrid. He hissed back, more to the universe than to Samuel Morrison, That old man would not dare do such a thing. It would be mad. With that, Burke spun and stalked away.

The stuffiness and stale air that filled the courtroom, did not penetrate the brightly paneled, well-lit private chambers of the Chancellor of the Richmond Court of Chancery. The windows were open, and the air was fresh and fragrant with the springtime scent of damp holly, dogwood, and pure white magnolia blossom. Chancellor George Wythe, wispy and angular, contemplated the coming day from behind a great oaken desk. The desk somehow seemed more important in the context of the room than the old gentleman who had carted it from his longtime home in Williamsburg years ago. How many years had it been? The old jurist knitted his brows and wondered. Now, in the eighth decade of his remarkable and productive life, George Wythe had begun to misplace some memories. Coming back to the business of the day, Wythe looked up and addressed the lanky mixed-race young man hovering just next to the desk, Michael, my friend, how many poor souls are presently packed like sardines into my courtroom?

Well, Judge Wythe, more than what is prudent, I would estimate, Michael Brown replied. He gave a sly smile and continued, The fire marshal may take exception. I would say that several hundred are in there. This boy, sixteen years old and smart as a whip, had been indiscriminately renamed Michael Brown the day he came to live at Judge Wythe’s Richmond mansion. Michael Brown was free, somehow, and he had been taken from the farm where he was born, to live and study with Chancellor Wythe. Michael’s name came not from his parents or other ancestral lineage. He did not know who those people were. But, the name Michael Brown was simple and easy to remember, so that is what they all began to call him when he arrived at Wythe’s house on Shockoe Hill at twelve years of age, some four years ago.

Michael Brown enjoyed life at Judge Wythe’s house. It was far more interesting than his days at the tobacco farm. He made nails back on that farm. That was all. He just made an awful lot of nails. Now, he faced a vast array of exciting new worlds to learn. There was no violence in Judge Wythe’s house, and most of the people around him seemed happy to be alive.

Michael Brown was an excellent student, and Judge Wythe encouraged the boy to tag along to court occasionally, to help, and to watch on important days. This was a very important day and Michael Brown was eager to see it unfold. Judge Wythe questioned his student further. How many of those hundreds huddled together out there will rejoice in the words I will speak today, Michael?

Michael Brown rolled his eyes up toward the tall ceiling, pursed his lips, and tapped his long slim fingers on his chin in contemplation. The boy had a sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. Finally, he looked at his teacher and replied in a studious tone, Well, Judge Wythe, we are aware of five men friendly to the cause of freedom in that crowd. There may be more. But, we do know of those five. They are known soldiers in the abolitionist cause and those five men will rejoice. His tone was resolute and optimistic, with only a hint of sarcasm.

Good for them, my boy. Good for them. And may God keep their souls from destruction, Wythe declared. The ancient jurist was silent for a moment, analyzing a thought. Then he drew a breath and continued, you say there are five men in my courtroom who will rejoice with us today. Now, Michael, that leaves a great many in there who will not rejoice at what I have to say.

Michael Brown nodded his head in agreement, and replied sadly, Yes, sir, it surely does.

Judge Wythe tapped his knobby bent fingers on the deep green leather of the great desk. He knitted his brows as if trying to solve a perplexing riddle, then posed a further question to young Michael. Why do you suppose that all of those men seem to have set down their work for the day, and cramped themselves in there, cheek by jowl, in unhealthy air? What is so very important to them, these men who are not directly involved with the case at bar, and yet, who chose to spend their morning with you and me, in such a disagreeable circumstance?

Michael contemplated the question for a moment, searching for a serious answer. After a few moments, he gave his solemn response.