Glimmers of Change

by Ginny Dye

  “There are obviously people not pleased to have him,” Robert observed wryly.

  Matthew chuckled. “If I’ve learned anything during this time it’s that no matter what you believe, someone is not going to like it.”

  Alfred jumped up again, his face still bright red. This time he waved a paper that had been passed to him by another man. “You say in your supposed newspaper that you don’t believe the South deserves readmission into the Union! What kind of nonsense is that?”

  “As long as there are people in the South who are being denied their rights, the South has proven they are not ready for readmission,” Eaton said firmly.

  “Those niggers are causing us nothing but grief!” Alfred shouted.

  “I’d say you’re the ones who have caused the blacks grief,” Eaton returned. “You might remember all the white predictions about the effects of emancipation. You were so certain the blacks would murder their former masters. The only murders taking place are whites murdering the blacks.” His voice rose. “You predicted the blacks wouldn’t work. The crops last year were less than usual, but it was the blacks, who were only partially paid and given little freedom, who brought the crops in.”

  “That’s all they’re good for,” Alfred sputtered, his bluster deflating as Eaton met his statements with facts he couldn’t refute.

  “No,” Eaton continued. “They are gifted farmers, but they’re capable of so much more if given the chance to accomplish it.”

  Angry murmurs rose in the train car as others listening in began to voice their opinions.

  “You Yankee Republicans are the cause of our problems,” another man called. “You’ll find we have ways of getting rid of what doesn’t belong in our city.”

  Robert leaned over to Matthew. “Eaton doesn’t seem bothered by the threat,” he said quietly, watching the publisher with admiration.

  Matthew shrugged. “He knew what he was getting into when he came here. I imagine he’s heard much worse,” he said flatly, but his eyes were full of sympathy as he watched Eaton.

  Alfred had regained his steam now that he knew he wasn’t alone. “You’ll find those of us who created this city still wield a great deal of influence. We may have lost our slaves, and our Confederate bonds may be worthless, but we still have our property. That counts for more than you know,” he said arrogantly.

  “And you still dominate the ranks of Memphis lawyers, doctors, and newspaper publishers,” Eaton said agreeably. “Which begs the question, why you are so threatened by a dissenting voice, Alfred? I find I am greatly curious why the less fortunate white people in Memphis are so eager to follow the very men who led them into a disastrous war.” His eyes swept the car, resting briefly on Robert and Matthew. “I realize this is a southern phenomenon, but I suspect time will dilute your influence. Whether you like it or not, things are changing. Right now there may just be glimmers of change, but time will fix that.”

  “Don’t count on it!”

  Robert watched as a stout, muscular redhead stood and glared back at Eaton. His accent easily identified him as Irish.

  “Me and the boys are getting real tired of all the niggers in our city. We got plans to take care of the problem.” His voice was quiet, but his eyes were dangerous.

  Robert stared in fascination as his blue eyes glittered like dark orbs.

  Eaton stiffened, but his voice remained calm. “What are you and the rest of the Memphis police planning, Connor?”

  “I won’t be telling you nothing you can put in that paper of yours, Eaton,” Connor drawled nastily. “You’ll know about it once it happens.”

  Alfred’s anger wasn’t reserved just for Eaton. He turned on Connor. “It’s not enough to destroy our city government with Irish incompetence?” he taunted. “You and your boys took office simply because we were disfranchised from the vote after the war. You Irish have made a mockery of our city. We may have a problem with the niggers, but whatever you have in mind will certainly not fix it,” he added haughtily. “The Irish are hardly better than the niggers. You’re inferior, disgusting, crude, and ignorant. Not to mention the fact that you’re undisciplined, drunken, untrustworthy, and violent. We’d do well to get rid of all of you, as well.”

  Connor flushed with rage as he lifted his fists and advanced on Alfred. “You’re about to find out first hand just how violent we can be,” he growled.

  Alfred took a step back, his face revealing he suddenly realized he had provoked a fight he would certainly lose. He gazed wildly around the car, but no one stood to come to his aid.

  Eaton was the one to restore calm. “Fighting him won’t resolve anything, Connor,” he said, standing to step in front of the advancing Irishman. “Better to report what he said to the authorities and let them keep an eye on him. Regardless of what he says, you’re the one with power in Memphis.”

  Alfred opened his mouth to protest but closed it quickly when his face registered the knowledge that Eaton was saving him from a beating.

  “I should beat him to a bloody pulp,” Connor snapped.

  “I understand the feeling,” Eaton responded, a flash of humor in his eyes, “but when all is said and done, his words are nothing but hot air.”

  Robert chuckled as he saw the frightened rage racing across Alfred’s face. “He’s skewering him at the same time he is saving him,” he muttered with admiration.

  Matthew nodded. “I’d heard he was a brilliant man. I’m seeing evidence of it myself.”

  When the long trip ended, Matthew and Robert had just stepped onto the platform to go in search of Moses when Eaton approached them.

  “You’re the ones who tried to get your black friend on board back in Richmond.”

  “That’s right,” Matthew replied. “I was very impressed with how you handled everything with Alfred and Connor. If you ever decide to leave the newspaper business, you might want to try politics.” He smiled as he reached out to shake Eaton’s hand. “My name is Matthew Justin.”

  Eaton’s eyes widened. “The journalist who was on board the Sultana when it exploded? I’ve read everything you wrote about it.”

  “Yes,” Matthew admitted, surprised Eaton had any idea who he was.

  “And what are you doing back in our city?”

  “It’s been almost a year since the explosion. I’ve come to write a follow-up article.” Not wanting to go into detail about his need to lay some ghosts to rest, he nodded his head toward Robert. “This is Robert Borden, my best friend. He served as an officer in the Confederacy and also helped me escape Libby Prison.”

  Eaton grinned. “You do know how to lay the foundation for a great story.” His eyes flashed between the two men. “Where are you staying?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Matthew replied. “We’re about to search for a hotel.” He raised his hand and waved when he saw Moses, relieved to see he looked fine after the long trip.

  “Come stay with me,” Eaton said suddenly. “All three of you,” he said firmly when Moses walked up. “I have plenty of room, and I can guarantee we have a lot to talk about.”

  Matthew shook his head. “There aren’t just three of us. I’m meeting two other colleagues coming in early tomorrow.”

  Eaton shrugged. “My wife and I have plenty of room. It would be an honor to have all of you stay.”

  Matthew saw agreement in Robert’s eyes and then turned to Moses. “What do you think?”

  Moses smiled easily at Eaton and reached out to shake his hand. “I appreciate the offer, but I have other plans.”

  Matthew stared at him. “Other plans?”

  Moses nodded firmly. “I met some fellow soldiers on the train ride. They asked me to stay in the fort with them. Most of them will be mustered out at the end of the week, but they are still living in the fort for now.” The confused looks on Robert’s and Matthew’s faces told him he needed to explain more in depth, but he didn’t know the man who had just invited them to stay. He would keep what he had learned to himself.

&nb
sp; Eaton stepped forward to shake hands with Moses. “My name is John Eaton. I’m the publisher and chief editor of the Memphis Post.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Moses said evenly. “My name is Moses Samuels.” He appreciated the warm light in the man’s eyes, but he had learned too much on the train ride to talk openly with a newspaperman. He kept his face stoic while his mind raced.

  Eaton stepped back with an easy smile. “None of you have any reason to trust me or talk with me, but I believe I can do a great deal to help you during your stay in Memphis.” His expression grew serious. “Memphis is a powder keg right now. It’s just a matter of time before it explodes.” He locked eyes with Moses. “I don’t know that you’re safe down in the black part of town,” he said bluntly.

  “Probably not,” Moses agreed, “but that is where I will be.” He had thought carefully before saying he would stay in the fort. He was quite sure he would be safer at Eaton’s home but everything in him was telling him he was not in Memphis for safety. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but he knew he needed to be in the midst of it. He longed to explain more to Robert and Matthew, who were watching him with grave concern, but now was not the time.

  “Then at least let me take all of you to lunch,” Eaton insisted. “It’s best you know as much as possible.”

  Moses considered the offer and then slowly nodded his head. “I appreciate it.” He could gather information without giving anything away. “Let me tell my new friends. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He could feel Robert and Matthew’s eyes on his back as he walked away.

  Roy and Harry watched Moses as he walked back. “You still coming?”

  Moses smiled. He understood their suspicions. “I am, but first I’m going to have lunch with my friends.”

  Harry frowned, his long, narrow face scarred by a whip during his years of slavery in Mississippi. He exchanged a skeptical look with Roy, a much shorter, stocky man with a ready smile and suspicious eyes. “That right?”

  Moses held his gaze. “I learned a long time ago that knowledge can go a long way toward evening the scales in a fight. John Eaton, the man in the suit, is the editor of the Memphis Post. You have my word I won’t say anything about what we have discussed, but I may get some information that will help us.”

  “I know who Eaton is,” Harry replied. “As far as I can tell, he be a good man. He seems to be fair and his newspaper don’t make up all the nonsense stirrin’ up the trouble, but I ain’t in much of a mood to trust.”

  Moses wasn’t either, but he was also aware it would take both white and black people to fix what was going on in Memphis…as well as the rest of the country. He glanced at Robert and Matthew, who were watching him. Their friendship was the only thing giving him the ability to trust after what he had learned during the long trip. He wanted to introduce them to Roy and Harry, but he didn’t want to do anything to put them in more jeopardy. “I’ll be at the fort this afternoon,” he promised.

  “Make sure you get there before dark,” Roy growled, his face tight with doubt. “Ain’t no black man oughta be out on the streets after dark, especially one as big as you.”

  “I’ll be there,” Moses replied, searching for something to say that would reassure him. “You don’t have a reason to trust me, but you can.”

  Roy scowled and then forced his mouth into a smile as he sighed heavily. “I know we can, Moses. We heard enough of your stories. You know what it like to be a black man. Go see if you can find out somethin’ to help us. Just be careful. Especially around them Irish police. They don’t need an excuse to come after you. You going into the white part of town is like an invitation to get you.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Moses shook hands with both of them and then walked back over to the group of men waiting for him. He chose to ignore the questions in Robert and Matthew’s eyes. Now was not the time for explanations.

  Matthew gazed around the store they were walking through as they made their way to a restaurant tucked in the back. Large framed photos of Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jefferson Davis adorned the walls of the shop. He shook his head when he saw decks of playing cards featuring the engraved portraits of fifty-two Confederate generals. He leaned closer to inspect a volume of poems and songs composed in the South during and right after the war. The store was a true testament to the Lost Cause.

  Eaton followed his eyes. “Whenever a band strikes up ‘Dixie’ you will hear cheers.”

  “How about ‘Yankee Doodle’?” Matthew asked sardonically.

  Eaton shrugged. “Don’t be surprised if you hear hisses. Yankees are less than popular around here.”

  “Southerners don’t take defeat well,” Robert observed.

  “They shouldn’t have started a war then,” Eaton replied tightly.

  “True,” Robert agreed with a grin. “Don’t think I’m going to start a fight with you. I had quite enough of that during the war. I’m simply making an observation.”

  “Refreshing,” Eaton said, eying him thoughtfully. He led them into the restaurant, choosing a table in the back of the room beside a window overlooking the streets.

  Matthew smiled. He recognized the strategy. The noises from the street would do much to cover up their conversation in the crowded, loud restaurant. His smile faded when he saw the glares aimed at Moses. He was the only black man in the restaurant. “Is this safe for Moses?”

  Eaton nodded reassuringly. “As safe as any place,” he said as he settled down at the table, his back to the window so he could watch the doors. “The men here in the restaurant are not the ones you need to worry about. They are all hot-headed conservatives who would like nothing better than to rid Memphis of all Republicans and blacks, but so far they seem to be content with trying to urge boycotts that never seem to take shape because everyone loves a good bargain. They turn up their noses, avert their eyes, and glare a lot, but that seems to be the extent of it.”

  “Yet you’re worried,” Matthew said quietly. He was aware Moses was watching Eaton carefully. He wished he could get inside his friend’s head, but Moses’s shuttered eyes said he was going to give nothing away. Years of abuse during slavery had taught him how to shut down. He would not reveal anything until he was ready.

  Eaton frowned. “Yes, I’m worried. I told you Memphis is a powder keg. Right now the explosive tension is between the Irish and the blacks.”

  “The Irish?” Robert asked in surprise. “Why?”

  “They believe they have something to prove,” Eaton responded. “About twenty percent of our population is Irish.”

  “Close to seven thousand residents,” Matthew commented.

  “Yes. The majority of them emigrated during the potato famine. Most of them were laborers with no property, or they were very marginal landholders in Ireland. When they got to America they were impoverished, poorly educated, and had practically no skills. Almost all of them are Catholic, meaning they stand out in an overwhelmingly evangelical Protestant society.” He glanced out the window as a small group of policemen, easily recognizable as Irish because of their red hair, strolled by. “They work hard for paltry wages, they drink hard when the workday is done, and they pray hard on Sundays.”

  “So why such tension with the blacks?” Robert asked.

  “They retain their love for Ireland, but they are also eager to become American citizens. They have embraced their American identity as fervently as their Irishness. Most of them are rabid Democrats, and they have also adopted an especially fierce strain of the racism they learned here in the South.”

  Eaton stopped talking when their waiter approached. “I recommend the beef stew,” he advised. When everyone nodded, he placed the order for everyone and went back to his explanation. “There are a few well-educated and affluent Irishmen in Memphis, but most of them earn their poverty-level wages through manual work.”

  “The same work the blacks are doing,” Matthew observed. He knew of the tension that had existed before the war, but his time in Memphis
during the war had been limited to his time in the hospital after the explosion. He pulled his thoughts back from flashing images of the explosion and bloated corpses on the waterfront. He forced himself to focus.

  “Exactly,” Eaton replied. “Unfortunately, the Irish also hold the positions of power in Memphis. Our mayor is Irish, many of the councilmen, most of the policemen and the firemen.” He answered Matthew’s next question before he could ask it. “By state law, anyone who aided the Southern rebellion could not vote in the municipal general election last year. Most of the Irishmen in Memphis declined to fight in the war. By the time Confederate conscription was in place, Memphis was already in the hands of the Union. When the war ended, most of the native Memphians couldn’t vote. The twenty-five hundred voters were predominantly Irish.”

  “They voted the Irish into office,” Matthew stated, the picture becoming clearer as the pieces fit into place.

  “Yes. And then those elected officials appointed many more to municipal positions,” Eaton added.

  “Like the police,” Moses said quietly, speaking for the first time since they left the station.

  Matthew looked at him sharply, recognizing the intense shine in his eyes. Moses had agreed to lunch because he hoped to gain something from it. The picture of what he and his new friends had talked about began to form in his mind.

  “Like the police,” Eaton agreed, turning his attention to Moses. “The police chief is a native southerner and longtime Memphian, but one hundred sixty-two of his hundred seventy-seven men are Irish.”

  “Is that a problem?” Matthew asked, watching Moses. He would help him get the information he was evidently after.

  “Yes,” Eaton responded bluntly. “Chief Garrett has done his best to professionalize the force, but the good old boys’ club is in full swing throughout his superiors. There are a large number of policemen who are really nothing but incompetents, drunkards, loafers, thugs, or crooks.” He nodded his head toward a group of policemen entering a local saloon. “Many of our fine police spend more of their on-duty hours in the saloons than they do on the streets.”