Hanover; Or The Persecution of the Lowly Part 5

CHAPTER X.

Judas Iscariot.

When the Executive Committee, in response to Mr. Wingate's call, met in his office the following evening, the Governor's letter was read to them, and Molly Pierrepont's story repeated. Plans of action were mapped out, but not without some bitter attacks upon the enemy. Mr. Wingate's proposal to surrender for the sake of averting bloodshed, if possible, however, prevailed. The bitter language and threats made by hotheads would, if they reached the ears of whites, only add fuel to the fire already burning; so the members were cautioned by the chairman to give to the enemy no opportunity. But even among the twelve chosen of G.o.d there was a traitor, and since that memorable time nearly every band of brothers has had its Judas ready at any time of trouble to sacrifice others to save himself, or betray them for reward. Was there a Judas on the Republican Executive Committee of New Hanover county? Yes!

In the days of slavery there existed in the South a kind of Negro known as the "Good n.i.g.g.e.r" or "White folks n.i.g.g.e.r," who was a stubborn believer in his own inferiority and the righteousness of his enslavement. He sneaked around, grinned his way into the confidence of other slaves, then stole away and told their secrets. Were there any plots being concocted to rise up and strike a blow for liberty, the good n.i.g.g.e.r would inevitably be there to join in the shaping of plans, only to go out and hang his fellow-conspirators.

The San Domingons in their struggle for liberty found this good n.i.g.g.e.r a most formidable barrier, and those who are familiar with the history of that b.l.o.o.d.y struggle know just how heart-sickening was the taking off of this creature wherever found. In many instances they cut off his toes, his fingers, his ears, his nose, stuffed pieces of these extremities into his mouth, and left him to die a slow death. The emanc.i.p.ation and the consequent opportunities for intellectual advancement have not changed this good n.i.g.g.e.r, for in numerous instances you will find him well educated, and often swaying quite an influence in a community. But he is generally an ignorant, shiftless fellow, forever lamenting about his freedom, flaying the Yankees for taking him away from his master, who took care of him. He still likes to sit around on the back steps of the whites' residences to talk about good old days when he was free from the responsibility of "keerin' fer mase'f." Or, in higher walks of life, from pulpit and public rostrum, he's bewailing the shortcomings of his own people and magnifying the virtues of the whites. He stands among the ashes of the victims of a mob's fury to abuse the Negro for having been killed, and to praise the whites for the crime.

George R. Shaw, a prominent negro, writes a card to the public, in which he says:

"One reason why such crimes are committed by negroes is that there is no discipline over negro children. From ten years up they are allowed to loaf about from place to place and with all kinds of characters. They have no moral restraints. Book learning in colleges dooms the negro to be fit for nothing. They think they cannot do manual labor. What my people need is an industrial, moral, common school training. Lynching does no good, and makes bad worse. The brute who will commit these crimes never sees a newspaper. Sam Hose and all such should die, but not at the hands of a mob. The negro must be taught to abhor crime from principle, not through fear. Let critics take this Sam Hose case home to themselves. If the same crime was to happen in my immediate vicinity most any of us would do very nearly like those Georgians did. If we did not lynch him we would hold the clothing of those that were doing the lynching."

Shortly after the burning of Sam Hose in Georgia, a good n.i.g.g.e.r, signing his name as Shaw sent to a certain Southern paper an article commending the action of the mob, and expressing a willingness to have held their coats while the dastardly act was performed. Did this man know that Sam Hose committed the crime for which he suffered such a horrible death? Can men capable of committing such deeds as the burning and mutilating the body of this wretch be relied upon for truth? If Cranford was one of that mob of cowards who shot to death those manacled men at Palmetto, the knocking out of his brains would have made a man of another race a hero.

Calvin Sauls, who had heretofore been a kind of an independent, having at various times voted with Democrats, Populists, Green-backers and Republicans, had shown a disposition to be earnestly interested in Republican success in the campaign of 1898. Running here and there, attending primaries and committee meetings, full of information as to the movements of the enemy, he had worked his way into the confidence of these unwary colored politicians, who considered him an earnest worker for the cause of Republicanism, so much so that he had been admitted into the headquarters of the Executive Committee on that evening. "And Judas, having received the sop, went immediately out, and it was night."

No one noticed Calvin Sauls on that night, as he, taking the advantage of a moment of exciting debate, slipped out into the darkness, and made his way into the Democratic headquarters. At the corner of Fourth and Chestnut streets a dark figure stepped out from the darkness and confronted him. "h.e.l.lo dar, Calvin Sauls!" said a gruff voice. "Where is you sneakin' ter? You got er few uv us fool, but not all. Goin' down ter tell wa't you foun' out at de committee meet'n, eh?" "O, g'wan way f'm me, man; I got dese white fo'ks bizness ter ten' ter." The man seized Sauls and held on to him. "Look er here, some women waited at de corner of Red Cross an' Fourth street to beat yo' las' night." "Wa' fer?" asked Sauls, trying to free himself from the man's grasp. "Fur trying ter suade dey dauters down ter dat Fayette Club for dem white mens." "It's er no sich ting!" "You lie, you louse!" exclaimed the man, loosening his hold, and shoving Sauls nearly off the sidewalk. Sauls, recovering, staggered on his way.

Ben Hartright leaned against a post on the veranda of the Democratic Club's meeting place when Calvin Sauls came up. "Why h.e.l.lo, Calvin, is that you?" "Yes, sah, Ma.r.s.e Ben," returned the Negro. "I comin' ter make ma report." Ben Hartright intercepted Sauls as he placed his foot upon the door sill and drew him aside. "Say, Calvin, I saw you talking to a rather striking looking colored girl the other day; who is she? Can't you fix it so I can get an interview?" "Uh, uh," said Sauls, shaking his head. "Dat's Bob Sims' gal; she jes from college, an' she's all right now, I tell yer. You know dem Simses is top er de pot n.i.g.g.e.rs." "That's the kind I always play for, Calvin; you know me," answered Ben.

"Gentlemen must always have the best, ding it all! I though you were sufficiently well bred to know that the best of everything in this world is for white people." "Dat's so," said Sauls, "but yo member dat time Bob Sims c.u.m nie beat'n dat white man head off bout insult'n dat tudder gal er his. I feared mon." "That's all right, Calvin; I'll stand by you.

Molly's gone back on me now; I'm afraid she's converted and joined the sanctified band. By thunder, she defied me the other night." "Yes, sah, an' she's in yernes', too; she's on de warpath fur true. I got er heap ter report ter night, so I see you later on dat udder matter." And Sauls pushed past Hartright and made his way into the club room.

CHAPTER XI.

Uncle Guy.

On looking over the list of Wilmingtons' personages who have been instrumental in moulding its character and making it one of the most desirable places on earth, and the memory of whose face and name revive the sweetest recollections of early youth in the dear old town, the name and face of Uncle Guy comes most vividly before me.

In ante-bellum days in the South, one week in all the year was given by the master to the slave--a week of absolute freedom, in which the Negro, unrestrained, danced and frolicked and otherwise amused himself to his heart's content. This season of freedom commenced with the dawn of Christmas, and lasted until the beginning of the New Year. The slave heard not the story of the Christ, of the wise men, or the shepherds of Bethlehem; he saw no Christmas tree brilliant with tapers even in the home of his master. For, unlike Christmas observances in the North, full of solemnity and historic significance, the Southern Christmas was and is still a kind of Mardi Gras festival, ending with the dawn of the New Year. Early on each Christmas morning the slaves, old and young, little and big, gathered at the door of the "Big House" to greet their master, who gave each in turn his Christmas "dram," and then, like a kennel is opened and pent-up hounds are bidden to scamper away, the slaves were let go to enjoy themselves to their heart's content, and were summoned no more to the field before the dawn of the New Year. While in the rural districts the frolics and kindred pleasures were the chief pastimes, in the cities and towns the celebrations were more elaborate. In gaudy regalia the "Hog Eye" danced for the general amus.e.m.e.nt, and the c.o.o.ner in his rags "showed his motions." For many years before the war Uncle Guy was the star performer at these functions in Wilmington. With whip in hand, he danced and pranced, and in sport flogged children who had been naughty during the year. But to us, who were youngsters in the seventies, Uncle Guy is most vividly remembered as a musician--a clarionet soloist--a member of the Shoo Fly Band, whose martial music will ever ring in the ear of memory.

The fall of Fort Fisher added many a new face and character to Wilmington life. Negroes who had in the conflict just closed learned of the art of war, added impetus to and stimulated the old city's martial spirit and love of gaudy display. And those who through the same agency had learned in the military bands and drum corps the art of music were indispensable adjuvants in elevating her lowly inhabitants. But he who came with the knowledge of music had a much wider field for usefulness before him; for the Negroes' love for music is stronger than love for war. Frank Johnson, who had the credit of organizing the Shoo Fly Band, had not tasted of war, but he and Uncle Guy had been "orchestra"

musicians before the war. And now, as the increase of talent in Wilmington opened a wider field, the band was organized. It was called Frank Johnson's Band at first, but in after years more familiarly known as the "Shoo Fly." The name is a small matter, however; music was the chief thing. And how that band could play it! There was a ring in that music that electrified the soul and filled the limbs with renewed vigor.

There was d.i.c.k Stove with his trombone, Henry Anderson with his ba.s.s, Making music swift as raindrops in a race.

There was Guy Wright with his clarionet, Henry Adams with his B, And the music made the youngsters dance with glee.

There was Johnson, he play'd second, Who, when horn-blowing was dull, Could play a fiddle tempting to the soul.

At Hilton, Paddy's Hollow, at the Oaks, on Kidder's Hill, Where good and bad alike could dance their fill.

Then there was Jim, the drummer, Who could beat a drum like Jim?

Oh! we little ones were awful proud of him.

How nicely he could keep the time.

"Shoo Fly, don't bother me!"

For I'm a member of old Comp'ny D.

It was down old Seventh to Market, And through Market down to Third.

Playin' Molly Darlin', sweetes' ever heard; From thence up Third to Castle, while "Up in a Balloon"

Made us wish to pay a visit to the moon.

Then we had no Gen'l Jacksons Dressed in gol' lace all for show, Then such hifullutin notions didn't go.

It was music! Sweetes' music!

"Darlin', I am growin' old,"

Will live, forever live within the soul.

The old Shoo Fly Band is a thing of the past; no more shall we listen to its inspiring music, for the majority of its members have crossed the melancholy flood. The last time that they appeared on the streets of Wilmington only a s.e.xtet remained. d.i.c.k Stove's trombone horn had been curtailed in order to hide the marks of decay upon its bell. They gallantly marched up Market street, and with a dismal, yet not discordant blast, turned into Fourth, en route to Hilton. I think that Uncle Guy is the only remaining one of that gallant few living in Wilmington to-day, and the friends of those who departed this life in later years followed their bodies to the grave keeping step to the sad wail of his lone clarionet. Jim Richardson, d.i.c.k Stove, Johnson, Adams, Anderson--I wonder, does he think of them now, tenderly, emotionally and with a longing to join them on the other side. I wonder if they all cl.u.s.ter about him when in his lonely hours he consoles himself with his clarionet. For many years Uncle Guy has been Wilmington's chief musician. Bands magnificent in equipment and rich in talent have been organized, to flourish for a few years only. But Uncle Guy's trio of clarionet and drums has withstood the test of time; yea, they were indispensable for base ball advertis.e.m.e.nt and kindred amus.e.m.e.nts, heading both civic and military processions, white and black, in their outings and celebrations, or with bowed head and thoughtful countenance he has led the march to the grave. As I recollect Uncle Guy, he was the embodiment of neatness, feminine in build--it seemed that nature intended to form a woman instead of a man. Like a woman, he plaited his hair and drew it down behind his ears. His hands and feet were small, his fingers tapering; his face was black, his eyes small, his lips and nose thin, his voice fine, but harsh, and he slightly stooped or bent forward as he walked. There is poetry in every move of his bent figure as he slowly walks down the street on this autumn morning. As we gaze upon him strolling feebly along, we involuntarily sigh for the days when the heart was young. May Day, with its buds and blossoms, Christmastide, full of bright antic.i.p.ations, come trooping up the misty way. We are following the old band; listen to the music! How enchanting!

"Up in a balloon, boys, up in a balloon, Where the little stars are sailing round the moon; Up in a balloon, to pay a visit to the moon, All among the little stars sailing round the moon."

We are making water-mills in the brooks; we are swinging our sweethearts; we feel again the heart throbs of early youth when we dared the first caress.

"Shoo fly, don't bother me!

For I belong to Company D."

It is Monday morning--the washwoman's day of preparation; when the clothes are brought in, the shopping attended to; when the women congregate on the street corners, sit upon their baskets and bundles or lean against the fences to discuss the doings of the Sunday just past--what the preacher said and what the neighbors wore, etc. Three women stood upon the corner toward which Uncle Guy was tending. But they were not talking about texts and fashions. Uncle Guy heard the following as he drew nigh: "Bu'n um! Bu'n um! Good fer nuthin' broke down ristercrats an' po' white trash. Ef de men kayn't git gun we kin git ka.r.s.ene an' match an' we'll hab um wahkin' de street in dere nite gown."

Judge Morse pa.s.sed by, turned his head to catch as much as possible of what was being spoken. "Negro like," he said, as he went on his way.

"They are all talk. I was raised among them, heard them talk before, but it amounted to nothing. I'm against any scheme to do them harm, for there's no harm in them. This Negro domination talk is all bosh."

Uncle Guy stepped to one side and humbly saluted Judge Morse as he pa.s.sed, then bore down upon the women who were vigorously discussing the all-absorbing topic. The old man walked out to the edge of the sidewalk, squinted his eyes and came slowly up to where the women stood, comically pointing his index finger at them: "Look yer," said he, "yuna ta'k too much!" raising his voice. "Yuna mouts g'wine ter git yuna inter trouble; hear me? Did yuna see Jedge Morse when he go by? Did yuna see 'im stop ter listen at you? Le' me tell yuna sumthin' right good." The old man shook his finger several seconds before proceeding. "Dese white fo'kes is onter you, dey got de road all map out. Dey no ebry move yuna n.i.g.g.e.r makin'. How dey no it? How dey no it, I say?" Another long finger shake.

"Yuna n.i.g.g.e.r uman tell um, yuna runnin' yuna tongue in de kitchen, yuna runnin' yer tongue in de street. Now, instid ov de bocra bein' in de street in dey nite gown, yuna gwine ter be thar wid nuttin' on. Don't you no dat we ain't bin able ter by er gun er ounce powder in munts, an'

de bocra got cannon an ebry ting. See how he'pliss yer is? Now yuna go home, an' quit so much ta'k. Keep cool fer dese bocra pisen." Uncle Guy walked slowly on and the women dispersed. Those who read the newspaper accounts of that terrible ma.s.sacre know full well just how true was the prophecy of this old citizen. Doubtless he looks back over it now as a catastrophe beyond his expectations or dreams.

CHAPTER XII.

The Ma.s.sacre.

The five days prior to the ma.s.sacre Wilmington was the scene of turmoil, of bickerings between the factions in the political struggle; "Red Shirts" and "Rough Riders" had paraded, and for two or three days Captain Keen had been displaying his gatling gun, testing its efficiency as a deadly weapon before the Negroes.

All of these demonstrations had taken place to convince the Negro that to try to exercise his right as an elector would have a disastrous result. Upon the conservative and peace-loving these things had the desired effect. But the bolder ones showed a rugged front, and on election day hung about the polls and insisted upon exercising their rights as citizens, and many clashings were the results. But the major portion of black electors stayed at home in hope that the bloodshed which hot-headed Democrats had been clamoring for as the only means of carrying the election might be averted. When the sun set upon the little city on the 9th of November there seemed to be a rift in the storm cloud that had for so many weeks hung over it, and the city had apparently resumed its wonted quiet. Far out on Dry Pond, in the old "Wigwam" a gang of men had met, who ere the sun should set upon another day would make Wilmington the scene of a tragedy astonishing to the State and to the nation. They had gathered to await the signal to begin; they had good rifles and a plentiful supply of ammunition, and their tethered steeds standing about the old "Wigwam" were pawing and neighing for the fray. The clock in the old Presbyterian Church on Orange street dismally tolled out the hour of three. Teck Pervis arose, yawned, walked up and then down the floor among the men who lay asleep with their weapons beside them. He made a deep, long, loud whistle; the men began to arise one after another, and soon the room was in a bustle. Some were washing faces, others sipping coffee as a forerunner of something hotter that would stimulate and give force to the spirit of deviltry that the work of the day required.

"Gentermen," said Teck Pervis, standing in the middle of the hall and holding a cup of coffee in his hand. "This is ther day thet ther white people of North Ca'liny is going ter show Mr. n.i.g.g.e.r who's ter rule in Wilmin'ton, and there's ter be no drawin' back in this here bizness."

Just then d.i.c.k Sands interrupted the leader by jumping out into the floor. He shuffled, he danced, kissed his gun, threw it into the air, and twirled it between his fingers like a born drum major. "Gentermen!

hit's ther happies' day I seed sence way foe ther war. This is er day I bin er longin' fur and prayin' fur eber since ther ding Yanks c.u.m and freed Mr. n.i.g.g.e.r an' sot im on ekal footin' wid er white man. Laws er ma.s.sy me'. Gentermen, I'se seed things happen in this here town sence Fo't Fisher fell thet wus enuf ter make eny dec'nt white man go inter his hole, an' pull his hole after 'im. Think uv it, gentermen, think uv it! n.i.g.g.e.r lawyers, n.i.g.g.e.r doctors, n.i.g.g.e.r storekeepers, n.i.g.g.e.r teachers, n.i.g.g.e.r preachers, n.i.g.g.e.rs in fine houses--why, gentermen, jedgmint hain't fur off. Who was in ther Cote House thet day when thet n.i.g.g.e.r White tole Colonel Buck he did'n no law? I wus thar, an' never wanter see sich ergin. Evrybody jis' opened his mouth an' stared fus at ther n.i.g.g.e.r an' then at Colonel Buck. I felt thet ther merlineum wus at han', jus' waitin' ter see ther worl' turn een uppermos', an' go ter smash. Whoopalah! but we air goin' ter show um sump'n ter day, an' I jes wish thet n.i.g.g.e.r White wus in Wilminton, fur these big n.i.g.g.e.rs'll be the firs' whose cases we'll try. Oh. Mr. Peaman, Oh, Mr. Bryant, Mr. Miller and all you uns er the Afrikin foe hundered! yo time is c.u.m!" d.i.c.k Sands ended his harangue by turning a somersault. "I jes bet d.i.c.k Sands owes Tom Miller now," said a young chap who sat leaning against the wall with his legs spread out, laughing at d.i.c.k's Indian-like antics. "Yes,"

broke in another; "Tom's he'ped er lot er we po' devals; he's lent out thousans er dollars in all ter white men. Hits er shame ter do him!"

"Yes, I mus admit that I owe Tom, but this is er time fur me ter jump bail," said d.i.c.k Sands. "I don't b'lieve thet er n.i.g.g.e.r should hav es much money es Tom's got no way. Hit's ergin his helth. You know n.i.g.g.e.rs liv longer po' then they do when they air rich, bekase when they're po'

they air in ther natruls, an air easier kept in their places. Hit's these foe hundred n.i.g.g.e.rs thet er raisin all ther trouble." ...

"Well, les git ter bizness, gentermen," broke in Teck Pervis "There's er lot befoe us ter do; h.e.l.l is ter begin at ther Cotton Press under Kurnel Moss, while Cap'n Keen'll kinder peramerlate er roun in ther middle er ther town with thet everlasting h.e.l.l belcher uv his ter keep tings in check. Kurnel Wade, Tom Strong, Hines an uther big uns will sortie er roun' to'ards Dry Pond an blow up ther print'n press; thets ter draw ther n.i.g.g.e.rs out frum ther Cotton Press, so thet Kurnel Moss kin git at um, an mow em down. We uns will canter to'ards Brooklyn holdin' up n.i.g.g.e.rs as we go. Then we air to jine Hill, Sikes, Turpin, Isaacs an'

others, an' raise h.e.l.l in thet s.e.xion. We uns air ter take no chances wid theese Wilminton darkies. I ain't ferget Seventy-six. Let nun git by without bein' sarched, uman er man. Shoot ef they resiss. Them's the Kurnel's orders." "Who is this man Isaacs?" asked a stranger from Georgia. "A Jew?" "Thet name's Jewey e'nuff fur yir, ain't it?" replied d.i.c.k Sands. "He is er Jew, an er good un, I tell yer. I never took much stock in er Jew, but this here un is er bo'n genterman, mo fit ter be Christun. No church in hard circ.u.mstance is ever turned away from Ole Mose; he he'ps em all, don't kere what they be, Jewish, Protestan er Caterlick, white er black. He throde his influence with ther Prohibitionists some years er go, an foute hard ter make er dry town outer Wilminton, but ther luvers uv ole ginger wair too strong an jes wallop'd ther life out er ther cold water uns. Ole Mose tuk hit cool, he died game, took his defeat like er bon fighter, bekase he'd done an fill'd his jugs an' stowd em up in de house afore ther fight begun, so he cu'd erford ter be beat. Takin er drink in public was ergin his creed. Nice ole Jew tho. Keeps er paint store down street, and deals in painters' merterial, but never buys er baral er biled oil wonc't in five yers; but, like de widder in the Scripter, he alers has er baral ter draw frum when er customer wants biled oil. Ole Mose is er fine man tho; jes go in his stoe ter buy sumthin, pat him on his back, and tell him he is er bo'n genterman, an thet you b'lieve he kin trace his geneology back ter Moses an ther prophets, and thet his great-granddaddy's daddy was ther only Jew thet sined ther Dicleration of Independance; thet he looks like Napolyan, and he'll jes go inter his office an fetch yer ther fines' segyar yer ever smoked an foller yer all over ther stoe. Nice ole Jew Isaacs is. Ter see him stridin down ter bizniss ov er mawnin, yer air reminded uv ther prophets uv ole jurneyin toards Jarusalum ter read ther law." "What is the feller's name?" soliloquized a sallow-looking chap who stood with his back to the stove scratching his head in perplexity. "Name?" returned d.i.c.k Sands. "Why is you bin er listenin ter me all this time an dunno who I'm talkin erbout?" "Excuse me," returned the sallow man; "I no powerful well who yer ware talking er bout, and I wus tryin ter think uv ther name uv thet chap who's bin er stump speakin up in Sampson." "Fisher?" "No-o-o, thet ain't ther name; he's ther feller thet's runnin fur Congress." "Belden!" exclaimed several in one breath. "Thet's ther feller. Look er here," continued the sallow man, "he tole we uns up there thet ef we c.u.m an he'p ter make Wilminton er white man's town, we ware ter jes move inter ther n.i.g.g.e.rs' houses an own em; thet's what brung me here ter jine in this here fite." "Well, I tell yer fren," answered d.i.c.k, "we air goin ter make this er white man's town, thet's no lie, but ther ain't no shoity er bout ther other matter." "Boots an saddles." Further conversation was cut off. Every man flew to his horse and the host of murderers were off in a jiffy.

The city of Wilmington was startled by the loud report of a cannon on the morning of November 10th, 1898, which made her tremble as though shaken by an earthquake. Molly Pierrepont arose, hastened to the south window of her cottage and looked out; the clouds which hung low over Dry Pond were as brilliant in hue as though they hung over a lake of fire.