Blue Honor

Beginnings I. - Part 3

Baltimore, Maryland

June 1860

                The citizens of and visitors to the city crowded the cobblestone streets, their tasks and distractions slowing their pace. Without a thought, they passed the Front Street Theater, where politicians gathered to debate the issues of their party and perhaps the nation's future. Having already met in Charleston, South Carolina, the United States Democratic Party adjourned to meet again in Baltimore. They were no more near an agreement. Thus, the populace had grown bored with them.

                Once more in session, the conventioneers sat beneath the dazzling chandeliers providing a sleepy haze of light. They prattled noisily while their still interested constituents observed. The men, and some ladies, suffered this because it was a matter dear to their business and constitutions. Yet what they were treated to was a mockery of United States politics, embodied in fat, lazy men who desperately attended to their private agendas.

                The session started with a speech from an honored reverend. Both the observers and conventioneers fell quiet and sat with heads bowed, as he invoked a deity that appeared to have no power over those about to commit their self-righteous acts. In fact, the respectful silence lasted only through the cleric's retreat. When he had gone, the delegates immediately delved into the debate, filling the hall with a numbing din. With all motions opposed by at least one delegate, it appeared they would get no further at this meeting than they did at the last.

              "The gentleman from New York, you wish to address the motion you placed before the convention," the convention's president addressed the assembly.

                "I do," the gentleman from New York said. He rose from one of the many rows of theater seats. "I wish to admit the votes of the seceding Southern states—"

                "Nay," a voice called from somewhere.

                "They deserve to stand counted as we are, considering they were present in South Carolina. They resist nominating Mr. Douglas, and it is their right to do such."

                The gentleman from New York stood his ground, continuing on, perhaps in love with the sound of his own voice.

                Other delegates, including the president of the convention, interrupted his speech. It took several tries to overpower him, but his voice eventually faded. A raucous outcry met New York's defeat. The delegates then turned the debate in another direction.

                The Democratic Party faced a gravely serious issue. Their fate strongly hinged on the vote ahead. Yet, when the issue was brought to the floor, they failed to settle on a presidential nomination. The fear of losing power, or becoming the straw men on which the people sought their revenge, drove these men to stall. Threatening the stability of the party, time would tell if the Northern representatives were to be the only representatives. They appeared thoroughly worn out by the proceedings, but more likely apathy and the heat had settled in, for the desire of power and their comfortably feathered nests would not sway from the task.

                The grand measures being undertaken passed under the observation of two Maryland natives. The Marylanders watched with disgust. Their eyes flitted from face to face, and they read every nuance. None of it inspired them to think well of the Democrats.

                The younger of this pair watching the proceedings, Joseph Maynard, appeared the more annoyed. Joseph was a handsome young man, from his tawny hair and green-flecked eyes to the cadet uniform and polished boots he wore. Having reached the age of twenty-one years a few months before, his attitude was easily heated, and his nature was not one to excuse indolence. Judging by his expression alone, he harbored no patience for such dealings. In truth, he only attended this session at the request of his father. Reaching up, he scratched his closely trimmed beard and fought back a strong yawn of boredom, not wanting his father to see him act so crudely in public and embarrass him.