“Every road barred to us! Our papers not even delivered in the mail!” Parker Pillsbury tossed his head angrily. “Washington is a slave city. Thee must accept facts.” The Quaker, William Coffin, spoke in conciliatory tones. “But it’s our Capital, too--a city of several thousand inhabitants--and the slaveholders build high walls around it.” The Reverend Wendell Phillips was impatient. “We should hold a meeting in Washington!” William Lloyd Garrison sighed, thinking of all the uninformed people in that city. His remark was followed by a heavy silence. An Abolitionist meeting in Washington was out of the question. Several Southern states had already put a price on Garrison’s head. Frederick, sitting in the shadows, studied the glum faces and realized that, in one way or another, every man in the room was marked. They were agents of the Anti-Slavery Society and they, no more than he, could go South. Washington was South. Then from near the door came a drawling voice. “Gentlemen, trouble your heads no longer. I’m going home.” A slender man was coming forward into the lamplight. At the sound of the soft drawl, Frederick froze. He crouched low, hiding his face. But no alarm was sounded. There was welcome in Garrison’s low greeting: “Gamaliel Bailey!” The first voice answered, “I heard only enough to agree fully. We do need a spokesman in Washington. I would not flatter myself, gentlemen--but I am ready.” Garrison spoke with unaccustomed vehemence. “No! We need you here.” Frederick slowly lifted his head. The man was a stranger to him. His speech proclaimed him a Southerner. Now Frederick saw an attractive, dark-haired gentleman in black broadcloth and loosely fitted gray trousers. He looked down at Garrison, his black eyes bright. “This is the job that I alone can do,” he said. Wendell Phillips’ golden voice was warm as he nodded his head. “He’s right. Garrison. Gamaliel Bailey can go to Washington. He belongs.” “Captain John Smith, himself,” Pillsbury teased, but with affection. “At your service, sir.” The Southerner swept him a low bow. “This is no laughing matter, Mr. Bailey,” a stern voice interposed. “They know you have worked with us. You are a known Abolitionist!” Gamaliel Bailey flicked a bit of non-existent dust from his waistcoat, and gave a soft laugh. “Once a Virginia Bailey, always a Virginia Bailey! Have no fear, Mr. Hunton,” he said. He caught sight of Frederick’s dark face lifting itself among them. His eyes lit up. “This must be the new agent of whom I’ve been hearing.” “Yes,” several said at once. “It’s Frederick Douglass.” Their handclasp was a promise. “I go to Washington now, so that you can come later,” said the Virginian. “And I’ll be along!” promised Frederick Douglass. William Lloyd Garrison did not smile. His face was clouded with apprehension. “You’ll need help,” he said.