The Savannah River stretched wide and languid, its muddy waters clotted with incessant activity. The masts of countless tall ships rose high against the horizon, a forest of canvas and rigging that swayed gently with the current. Steamers puffed thick clouds of smoke as they churned toward away from piers, their hulls laden with wooden planks, bushels of rice, and bales of cotton destined for distant ports in England and France. On the cobblestone drayways, buckboard hacks and fine carriages jostled for space, their wheels grinding against the uneven stones as merchants shouted orders over the din.
The faint scent of salt and the hum of steam engines filled the air, blending with the earthiness of wet cobblestones—a mixture as timeless as the city itself. By 1868, steam-powered vessels had become integral to Savannah’s economy, facilitating trade and transportation along the Eastern Seaboard and beyond. The city’s shipyards and engineering facilities were hubs of activity, contributing to advancements in steam technology and ship design.
The syncopated rhythms of river commerce were occasionally pierced by the shrill whistle of a steamboat, adding a layer of urgency to the otherwise steady morning activity. Children darted up and down the slick and steep stone stairs of death that led down to River Street, their laughter rising above the clamoring voices. The streets were alive with a chaotic blend of Reconstruction-era vitality as Whites and Blacks in fine suits and buxom dresses navigated the bustling thoroughfares. Lamp posts, walls, and fences stood adorned with campaign handbills for James Simms, the bold lettering proclaiming his candidacy for the state legislature. Vibrant against the weathered wood and stone, each seemed to breathe with the promise of change.
The handbills fluttered in the breeze like flags of rebellion—bright, bold, and unafraid in the face of adversity. They declared a new reality: Black voices would no longer be silenced.
Excited and proud, a boisterous crowd of Black citizens gathered around one of the handbills. Amid this throng, Minda Campbell, an older Black woman with a commanding presence, pushed her way through. Her dark hands gripped a basket of fresh vegetables, and her wide-brimmed seagrass hat cast a shadow over her sharp eyes. Minda stopped abruptly before the poster, her gaze fixing on the image of her son, James.
Her ample shoulders squared, the strength she carried inside a quiet but undeniable challenge to the world around her. The basket of vegetables, though heavy, seemed light in her hands.
She stood there momentarily, her expression unreadable, before shaking her head with a small, rueful smile. Turning to the world as though addressing it directly, Minda spoke, her rich voice carrying a mix of pride and weariness.
“Look at them,” she said, gesturing toward the crowd. “All excited about my son James’s campaign posters. James has always been a good boy. A good man now. He and his wife Margaret been teaching our children at the Colored school over on Berrien Street near Jefferson since before the war, even back a’fore it was legal.”
Her words rang with the weight of years—years spent raising children, years spent battling the world’s indifference, and years of seeing her son’s hard work finally take root.
Minda stepped away from the crowd, her steps purposeful as she began weaving through the chaos of River Street. The press of bodies around her seemed to part instinctively, like a wave breaking around a rock, as though everyone knew that Minda Campbell was not someone to be trifled with.
A group of angry White men approached, their faces twisted with scorn as they caught sight of the campaign posters. The air grew tense, the vibrant hum of the street replaced by a brittle silence as the men advanced.
The men’s boots clacked against the cobblestones, their movements deliberate and heavy. Hostility bubbled beneath the surface of the city.
On one side, well-dressed Black citizens stood firm, their pride evident in their straight backs and defiant eyes. On the other, the White men sneered, their hands reaching out to tear the posters from walls and lampposts, shredding them with aggressive satisfaction. The battle lines were drawn, though no words were exchanged at first. The animosity was palpable, a heavy physical force in the humid air. The Black citizens remained unyielding, the tension in their bodies a silent declaration of strength. Eyes narrowed, jaws set, they stared down the attackers as if daring them to come closer.
Minda’s steps didn’t falter as she pushed through the brewing confrontation, her voice softening as she delved into her memories.
“Back when we was still slaves,” Minda said, her eyes fixed on a point far beyond the present, as if the weight of memory pressed too hard to meet the here and now. “I made a deal with old man Potter—got James and Thomas outta Colerain, working in town. That plantation up on Onslow Island, one of the biggest on the river, would’ve swallowed ‘em whole. Rice ain’t just hard work; it’s death work. I wasn’t about to let that happen to my boys.”
Her voice wavered, but not from weakness. It carried the weight of choices no mother should ever have to make. “Their papa was James Sims,” she continued, her tone sharpening with unspoken anger. “A White overseer on Potter’s land. Thought himself important, thought he had power. Enough power to decide who mattered and who didn’t.”
She drew a slow, deliberate breath, her fingers knotting in her lap. “He had enough decency to get a French tutor for his other boys, teaching them to read and write. But it wasn’t decency—not really—when he let James or Thomas sit in. That wasn’t kindness. That was guilt wearing a Sunday coat, and I’s the one who made him do it.”
Her gaze hardened. “Maybe he thought teaching my boys made him better than the rest. That somehow it made them less a slave. But neither James nor Thomas were his to teach or shape. They were mine. And what they learned—how to read, write, and speak those pretty languages—they learned for themselves, not for some White man to feel good about what he’d done.”
Her hands unclenched, and her voice softened, though the edge never dulled. “I fought for my boys every step of the way. And I’ll be damned if anyone writes their story without writing me into it.”
Her voice lowered as if she were speaking to herself, the weight of those years pressing down on her like the heat of the midday sun, carrying the weight of years spent negotiating for her family’s survival. “Now it was Thomas who took to carpentry, James to bricklaying. Old man Potter was fine with my boys working in town as long as they sent their wages back up to him. Sometimes they did, though, and sometimes they didn’t.”
The rhythm of her words matched the cadence of her memories, measured and deliberate as though she had spoken them a thousand times in her mind, each recollection as vivid as the day it had happened.
The faintest hint of a smile tugged at her lips as her steps slowed. “But James took up something else too... the fiddle. That boy got into more trouble with that damn fiddle.”
Her smile deepened, a mix of affection and exasperation, before it quickly faded, replaced by a look of resolve. She was no longer a mother reminiscing; she was a woman watching her son’s future unfold before her as he prepared to run a dangerous game for the state legislature.
She stopped at the edge of the street, her gaze lifting briefly to the horizon before falling back to the cobblestones at her feet. Her eyes lingering as though searching for something beyond the present moment. Her mind was heavy with the thought of James’s future—was it one she could still control, or was it already slipping away?
Behind her, the tension on River Street escalated. Shouted epithets flew like arrows between the two groups, and fists clenched on both sides. The tearing of another handbill was met with cries of outrage from the Black citizens, and the angry White men’s sneers turned into threats.
The day’s heat seemed to intensify, the sun now a blazing reminder that the battle for the streets and the future had already begun. The air, thick with humidity and hostility, hung heavy around them.
Minda didn’t look back as she stepped into a quieter alley, her basket of vegetables on her hip. But her voice lingered in the air, heavy with the echoes of the past and the weight of the present.
“My boy James always had a fire in him,” she murmured. “And he’s gon’ need it now more than ever.” Her words, soft as they were, seemed to echo down the alley, a prayer or a prophecy—only time would tell which.
The scene on River Street boiled over as the sun climbed higher, the shadows of the tall ships stretching long over the muddy waters of the Savannah River. Amid the chaos, many of the handbills still fluttered in the breeze. The sight of those torn edges, flapping in the breeze like tiny battle flags, only deepened the sense that this election, this fight for something more, was far from finished.
