The owners are two Germans who came to this country after the war. They employ 1000 hands, own all of the houses in Paradise and operate all of the stores. Most of the hands belong to the Knights of Nordica and they want the organization to help them unionize. Am awaiting instructions.
Matthew turned to Bunny and grinned. “Here’s more money,” he boasted, shaking the letter in his assistant’s face.
“What can you do about it?” that worthy inquired.
“What can I do? Well, Brother, you just watch my smoke. Tell Ruggles to get the plane ready,” he ordered. “We’ll fly over there at once.”
Two hours later Matthew’s plane sat down on the broad, close-clipped lawn in front of the Blickdoff-Hortzenboff cotton mill. Bunny and the Grand Giraw entered the building and walked to the office.
“Whom do you wish to see?” asked a clerk.
“Mr. Blickdoff, Mr. Hortzenboff or both; preferably both,” Matthew replied.
“And who’s calling?”
“The Grand Exalted Giraw of the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Knights of Nordica and his secretary,” boomed that gentleman. The awed young lady retired into an inner sanctum.
“That sure is some title,” commented Bunny in an undertone.
“Yes, Givens knows his stuff when it comes to that. The longer and sillier a title, the better the yaps like it.”
The young lady returned and announced that the two owners would be glad to receive the eminent Atlantan. Bunny and Matthew entered the office marked “Private.”
Hands were shaken, greetings exchanged and then Matthew got right down to business. He had received contributions from these two mill owners so to a certain extent they understood one another.
“Gentlemen,” he queried, “is it true that your employees are planning to strike next week?”
“So ve haff heardt,” puffed the corpulent, undersized Blickdoff.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“De uszual t’ing, uff coarse,” replied Hortzenboff, who resembled a beer barrel on stilts.
“You can’t do the usual thing,” warned Matthew. “Most of these people are members of the Knights of Nordica. They are looking to us for protection and we mean to give it to them.”
“Vy ve t’ought you vas favorable,” exclaimed Blickdoff.
“Und villing to be reasonable,” added Hortzenboff.
“That’s true,” Matthew agreed, “but you’re squeezing these people too hard.”
“But ve can’t pay dem any more,” protested the squat partner. “Vot ve gonna do?”
“Oh, you fellows can’t kid me, I know you’re coining the jack; but if you think it’s worth ten grand to you, I think I can adjust matters,” the Grand Giraw stated.
“Ten t’ousand dollars?” the two mill men gasped.
“You’ve got good ears,” Matthew assured them. “And if you don’t come across I’ll put the whole power of my organization behind your hands. Then it’ll cost you a hundred grand to get back to normal.”
The Germans looked at each other incredulously.
“Are you t’reatening us, Meester Fisher?” whined Blickdoff.
“You’ve got a good head at figuring out things, Blickdoff,” Matthew retorted, sarcastically.
“Suppose ve refuse?” queried the heavier Teuton.
“Yeah, suppose you do. Can’t you imagine what’ll happen when I pull these people off the job?”
“Ve’ll call out de militia,” warned Blickdoff.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Matthew commented. “Half the militiamen are members of my outfit.”
The Germans shrugged their shoulders hopelessly while Matthew and Bunny enjoyed their confusion.
“How mutch you say you wandt?” asked Hortzenboff.
“Fifteen grand,” replied the Grand Giraw, winking at Bunny.
“Budt you joost said ten t’ousand a minute ago,” screamed Blickdoff, gesticulating.
“Well, it’s fifteen now,” said Matthew, “and it’ll be twenty grand if you babies don’t hurry up and make up your mind.”
Hortzenboff reached hastily for the big check book and commenced writing. In a moment he handed Matthew the check.
“Take this back to Atlanta in the plane,” ordered Matthew, handing the check to Bunny, “and deposit it. Safety first.” Bunny went out.
“You don’t act like you trust us,” Blickdoff accused.
“Why should I?” the ex-Negro retorted. “I’ll just stick around for a while and keep you two company. You fellows might change your mind and stop payment on that check.”
“Ve are honest men, Meester Fisher,” cried Hortzenboff.
“Now I’ll tell one,” sneered the Grand Giraw, seating himself and taking a handful of cigars out of a box on the desk.
The following evening the drab, skinny, hollow-eyed mill folk trudged to the mass meeting called by Matthew in the only building in Paradise not owned by the company—the Knights of Nordica Hall. They poured into the ramshackle building, seated themselves on the wooden benches and waited for the speaking to begin.
They were a sorry lot, under-nourished, bony, vacant-looking, and yet they had seen a dim light. Without suggestion or agitation from the outside world, from which they were almost as completely cut off as if they had been in Siberia, they had talked among themselves and concluded that there was no hope for them except in organization. What they all felt they needed was wise leadership, and they looked to the Knights of Nordica for it, since they were all members of it and there was no other agency at hand. They waited now expectantly for the words of wisdom and encouragement which they expected to hear fall from the lips of their beloved Matthew Fisher, who now looked down upon them from the platform with cynical humor mingled with disgust.
They had not long to wait. A tall, gaunt mountaineer, who acted as chairman, after beseeching the mill hands to stand together like men and women, introduced the Grand Exalted Giraw.
Matthew spoke forcefully and to the point. He reminded them that they were men and women; that they were free, white and twenty-one; that they were citizens of the United States; that America was their country as well as Rockefeller’s; that they must stand firm in the defense of their rights as working people; that the worker was worthy of his hire; that nothing should be dearer to them than the maintenance of white supremacy. He insinuated that even in their midst there probably were some Negroes who had been turned white by Black-No-More. Such individuals, he insisted, made poor union material because they always showed their Negro characteristics and ran away in a crisis. Ending with a fervent plea for liberty, justice and a square deal, he sat down amid tumultuous applause. Eager to take advantage of their enthusiasm, the chairman began to call for members. Happily the people crowded around the little table in front of the platform to give their names and pay dues.
Swanson, the chairman and acknowledged leader of the militant element, was tickled with the results of the meeting. He slapped his thighs mountaineer fashion, shifted his chew of tobacco from the right cheek to the left, his pale blue eyes twinkling, and “allowed” to Matthew that the union would soon bring the Paradise Mill owners to terms. The Grand Exalted Giraw agreed.
Two days later, back in Atlanta, Matthew held a conference with a half-dozen of his secret operatives in his office. “Go to Paradise and do your stuff,” he commanded, “and do it right.”
The next day the six men stepped from the train in the little South Carolina town, engaged rooms at the local hotel and got busy. They let it be known that they were officials of the Knights of Nordica sent from Atlanta by the Grand Exalted Giraw to see that the mill workers got a square deal. They busied themselves visiting the three-room cottages of the workers, all of which looked alike, and talking very confidentially.
In a day or so it began to be noised about that Swanson, leader o
f the radical element, was really a former Negro from Columbia. It happened that a couple of years previously he had lived in that city. Consequently he readily admitted that he had lived there when asked innocently by one of the strangers in the presence of a group of workers. When Swanson wasn’t looking, the questioner glanced significantly at those in the group.
That was enough. To the simple-minded workers Swanson’s admission was conclusive evidence that the charge of being a Negro was true. When he called another strike meeting, no one came except a few of Fisher’s men. The big fellow was almost ready to cry because of the unexplained falling away of his followers. When one of the secret operatives told him the trouble he was furious.
“Ah haint no damn nigger a-tall,” he shouted. “Ah’m a white man an’ kin prove hit!”
Unfortunately he could not prove to the satisfaction of his fellow workers that he was not a Negro. They were adamant. On the streets they passed him without speaking and they complained to the foremen at the mill that they didn’t want to work with a nigger. Broken and disheartened after a week of vain effort, Swanson was glad to accept carfare out of the vicinity from one of Matthew’s men who pretended to be sympathetic.
With the departure of Swanson, the cause of the mill workers was dealt a heavy blow, but the three remaining ringleaders sought to carry on. The secret operatives of the Grand Exalted Giraw got busy again. One of the agitators was asked if it was true that his grandfather was a nigger. He strenuously denied the charge but being ignorant of the identity of his father he could not very well be certain about his grandfather. He was doomed. Within a week the other two were similarly discredited. Rumor was wafted abroad that the whole idea of a strike was a trick of smart niggers in the North who were in the pay of the Pope.
The erstwhile class conscious workers became terror-stricken by the specter of black blood. You couldn’t, they said, be sure of anybody any more, and it was better to leave things as they were than to take a chance of being led by some nigger. If the colored gentry couldn’t sit in the movies and ride in the trains with white folks, it wasn’t right for them to be organizing and leading white folks.
The radicals and laborites in New York City had been closely watching developments in Paradise ever since the news of the big mass meeting addressed by Matthew was broadcast by the Knights of Nordica news service. When it seemed that the mill workers were, for some mysterious reason, going to abandon the idea of striking, liberal and radical labor organizers were sent down to the town to see what could be done toward whipping up the spirit of revolt.
The representative of the liberal labor organization arrived first and immediately announced a meeting in the Knights of Nordica Hall, the only obtainable place. Nobody came. The man couldn’t understand it. He walked out into the town square, approached a little knot of men and asked what was the trouble.
“Y’re from that there Harlem in N’Yawk, haint ye?” asked one of the villagers.
“Why yes, I live in Harlem. What about it?”
“Well, we haint a gonna have no damn nigger leadin’ us, an’ if ye know what’s healthy fer yuh yo’ll git on away f’um here,” stated the speaker.
“Where do you get that nigger stuff?” inquired the amazed and insulted organizer. “I’m a white man.”
“Yo ain’t th’ first white nigger whut’s bin aroun’ these parts,” was the reply.
The organizer, puzzled but helpless, stayed around town for a week and then departed. Somebody had told the simple folk that Harlem was the Negro district in New York, after ascertaining that the organizer lived in that district. To them Harlem and Negro became synonymous and the laborite was doomed.
The radical labor organizer, refused permission to use the Knights of Nordica Hall because he was a Jew, was prevented from holding a street meeting when someone started a rumor that he believed in dividing up property, nationalizing women, and was in addition an atheist. He freely admitted the first, laughed at the second and proudly proclaimed the third. That was sufficient to inflame the mill hands, although God had been strangely deaf to their prayers, they owned no property to divide and most of their women were so ugly that they need have had no fears that any outsiders would want to nationalize them. The disciple of Lenin and Trotsky vanished down the road with a crowd of emaciated workers at his heels.
Soon all was quiet and orderly again in Paradise, S. C. On the advice of a conciliator from the United States Labor Department, Blickdoff and Hortzenboff took immediate steps to make their workers more satisfied with their pay, their jobs and their little home town. They built a swimming pool, a tennis court, shower baths and a playground for their employees but neglected to shorten their work time so these improvements could be enjoyed. They announced that they would give each worker a bonus of a whole day’s pay at Christmas time hereafter, and a week’s vacation each year to every employee who had been with them more than ten years. There were no such employees, of course, but the mill hands were overjoyed with their victory.
The local Baptist preacher, who was very thoughtfully paid by the company with the understanding that he would take a practical view of conditions in the community, told his flock their employers were to be commended for adopting a real Christian and American way of settling the difficulties between them and their workers. He suggested it was quite likely that Jesus, placed in the same position, would have done likewise.
“Be thankful for the little things,” he mooed. “God works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set ye free. The basis of all things is truth. Let us not be led astray by the poison from vipers’ tongues. This is America and not Russia. Patrick Henry said ‘Give me liberty or give me death’ and the true, red-blooded, 100 per cent American citizen says the same thing today. But there are right ways and wrong ways to get liberty. Your employers have gone about it the right way. For what, after all, is liberty except the enjoyment of life; and have they not placed within your reach those things that bring happiness and recreation?
“Your employers are interested, just as all true Americans are interested, in the welfare of their fellow citizens, their fellow townsmen. Their hearts beat for you. They are always thinking of you. They are always planning ways to make conditions better for you. They are sincerely doing all in their power. They have very heavy responsibilities.
“So you must be patient. Rome wasn’t built in a day. All things turn out well in time. Christ knows what he is doing and he will not permit his children to suffer.
“O, ye of little faith! Let not your hearts store up jealousy, hatred and animosity. Let not your minds be wooed by misunderstanding. Let us try to act and think as God would wish us to, and above all, let us, like those two kindly men yonder, practice Christian tolerance.”
Despite this inspiring message, it was apparent to everyone that Paradise would never be the same again. Rumors continued to fill the air. People were always asking each other embarrassing questions about birth and blood. Fights became more frequent. Large numbers of the workers, being of Southern birth, were unable to disprove charges of possessing Negro ancestry, and so were forced to leave the vicinity. The mill hands kept so busy talking about Negro blood that no one thought of discussing wages and hours of labor.
In August, Messrs. Blickdoff and Hortzenboff, being in Atlanta on business, stopped by Matthew’s office.
“Well, how’s the strike?” asked the Grand Giraw.
“Dot strike!” echoed Blickdoff. “Ach Gott! Dot strike neffer come off. Vat you do, you razcal?”
“That’s my secret,” replied Matthew, a little proudly. “Every man to his trade, you know.”
It had indeed become Matthew’s trade and he was quite adept at it. What had happened at Paradise had also happened elsewhere. There were no rumors of strikes. The working people were far more interested in what they considered, or were told was, the larger issue of race. It did
not matter that they had to send their children into the mills to augment the family wave; that they were always sickly and that their death rate was high. What mattered such little things when the very foundation of civilization, white supremacy, was threatened?
EIGHT
For over two years now had Black-No-More, Incorporated, been carrying on its self-appointed task of turning Negroes into Caucasians. The job was almost complete, except for the black folk in prisons, orphan asylums, insane asylums, homes for the aged, houses of correction and similar institutions. Those who had always maintained that it was impossible to get Negroes together for anything but a revival, a funeral or a frolic now had to admit that they had coöperated well in getting white. The poor had been helped by the well-to-do, brothers had helped sisters, children had assisted parents. There had been revived some of the same spirit of adventure prevalent in the days of the Underground Railroad. As a result, even in Mississippi, Negroes were quite rare. In the North the only Negroes to be seen were mulatto babies whose mothers, charmed by the beautiful color of their offspring, had defied convention and not turned them white. As there had never been more than two million Negroes in the North, the whitening process had been viewed indifferently by the masses because those who controlled the channels of opinion felt that the country was getting rid of a very vexatious problem at absolutely no cost; but not so in the South.
When one-third of the population of the erstwhile Confederacy had consisted of the much-maligned Sons of Ham, the blacks had really been of economic, social and psychological value to the section. Not only had they done the dirty work and laid the foundation of its wealth, but they had served as a convenient red herring for the upper classes when the white proletariat grew restive under exploitation. The presence of the Negro as an under class had also made of Dixie a unique part of the United States. There, despite the trend to industrialization, life was a little different, a little pleasanter, a little softer. There was contrast and variety, which was rare in a nation where standardization had progressed to such an extent that a traveler didn’t know what town he was in until someone informed him. The South had always been identified with the Negro, and vice versa, and its most pleasant memories treasured in song and story were built around this pariah class.
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