The low rumble of a distant train echoed faintly through the streets of Savannah, mingling with the steady clatter of the Freemans Standard’s printing press. The scent of tangy ink hung thick in the workshop, mingling with the aroma of old paper and the sharper bite of metal tools. Winter sunlight streamed through the workshop’s tall windows, its pale rays casting jagged shadows across the wooden floor. James Simms leaned over the press; his tweed trousers and leather suspenders dusted with ink. The steady motion of his hands on the crank mirrored the rhythm of his thoughts—focused, deliberate, and unyielding. Across the room, Jonas Finch, young, Black, and restless with nervous energy, ferried stacks of freshly printed paper closer to the press, the scrape of his boots punctuating the machine’s mechanical cadence.
The silence between them carried weight, thick with the unspoken tension of a South still in turmoil. James finally broke it, his voice cutting through the air like the opening chord of a hymn—clear, commanding, and with a weight that demanded attention.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Finch, about the president getting impeached?”
Jonas froze mid-step, his brow furrowing. The question hung in the air like a challenge. “Not sure I know much about impeaching a president, Reverend Simms,” he admitted cautiously, his tone betraying curiosity and unease.
James chuckled softly, lifting a freshly printed sheet from the press and inspecting it under the light. “High crimes and misdemeanors,” he said, savoring the gravity of the phrase. “The House is finally putting Andrew Johnson on trial. Never happened before.”
“Not ever?” Jonas asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.
“Never,” James confirmed, setting the sheet aside. He picked up another, unfolding it carefully. His voice steadied, taking on the measured cadence of a preacher delivering a pointed lesson. “Here—Representative Kelley, a good ‘radical’ Republican from Pennsylvania, speaking on the House floor: ‘The bloody and untilled fields of the ten unreconstructed States, the unsheeted ghosts of the two thousand murdered Negroes in Texas, cry for the punishment of Andrew Johnson.’”
Jonas blinked, his face paling as the words settled over him. “Two thousand?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.
James nodded, his expression darkening. “Two thousand in Texas alone. And that ain’t the half of it.”
Jonas hesitated, the weight of history pressing down on him. “But… why? Why now?”
James’s jaw tightened. “The House is impeaching him for pardoning a passel of rebels and giving them back their burned plantations,” he explained, his tone sharp and unrelenting. “But worse than that, he’s been blocking the Reconstruction Acts, standing in the way of freedom. And the son of a b***h will probably get by.”
“Get by?” Jonas repeated, his disbelief mounting. “How could he—after all this?”
“Acquitted,” James said with a sigh, his voice heavy with resignation. “Mark my words—it’ll be close, but the Senate won’t convict. Might come down to just a vote or two.”
Jonas stared at him, mouth slightly agape, as the enormity of the moment pressed against his young shoulders. The press clanked rhythmically, filling the silence that followed with a persistent, almost mocking beat.
“After everything he’s done?” Jonas finally stammered. “So… what do we do here in Savannah?”
James straightened, wiping his ink-stained hands on an oily rag. “We write about it,” he said. “This little colored newspaper here—it’s our weapon. The trial in Washington will drag on for weeks, and during that time, we’ll make damn sure people know exactly what kind of man Andrew Johnson is. Never underestimate the power of the press—or the pulpit.”
Jonas hesitated, then ventured, “You think… you think I might write something for it?”
James’s stern face softened into a small smile. “You might at that,” he said, his tone encouraging. “But articles and sermons won’t be enough to fight this evil.”
Jonas’s expression wavered, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “So… how do we fight?”
James placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Nonviolently. At the ballot box. Mr. Lincoln’s emancipation was just the beginning. We’ll fight at the polls, and we’ll fight until every man’s vote is counted.”
The boy nodded slowly, resolve returning to his posture. “I understand.”
James smiled faintly. “Good. I only want three things, Jonas. I want Negroes registered to vote, their bloody poll taxes paid so they can vote, and Negroes—light-skinned, like me, and dark-skinned, like you—running for office all over Georgia.”
Jonas’s eyes widened, his voice catching with nervous laughter. “You don’t ask for much, do you, Reverend?”
James laughed, snapping his fingers as he moved briskly around the press. “Oh, and let’s try to do this without getting killed.”
The boy chuckled despite himself. “That’s asking a lot.”
James cycled the press once more, lifting a freshly printed campaign poster. Jonas stepped closer, his gaze transfixed by the bold black letters. He murmured the words aloud as though speaking them into existence:
REV. JAMES SIMMS FOR STATE LEGISLATURE 1868,
CHATHAM COUNTY, GA. REPUBLICAN PLATFORM.
EQUAL SUFFRAGE TO ALL LOYAL MEN,
PUBLIC SAFETY AND EDUCATION.
“That looks mighty good,” James said, pride glinting in his eyes. “Now print fifty more.”
Jonas nodded, matching James’s enthusiasm. “You know, Reverend Simms? You’re not just a preacher or a printer anymore. You’re a politician.”
James grinned, the corners of his mouth tightening with determination. “And tonight, we’re gonna act like it. Gotta get these posters up all over town. Three months is not a lot of time for a political revolution.”
The boy moved to the press with renewed vigor, and the rhythmic clank filled the room once more, a sound that carried the promise of change with it.
