A Fool's Errand & Bricks without Straw

by Albion Winegar Tourgée

  It was not for the sake of the colored man, he said in conclusion, that he appealed to them to pause and think. It was because the honor, the nobility, the intelligence of the white man was being degraded by the course which passion and resentment, and not reason or patriotism, had dictated. He appealed to his hearers as white men, not so much to give to the colored man the right to express his sentiments at the ballot-box, as to regard that right as sacred because it rested upon the law, which constituted the foundation and safeguard of their own rights. He would not appeal to them as Southern men, for he hoped the day was at hand when there would no more be any such distinction. But he would appeal to them as men — honest men, honorable men — and as American citizens, to honor the law and thereby honor themselves.

  It had been said that the best and surest way to secure the repeal of a bad law was first to secure its unhindered operation. Especially was this true of a people who had boasted of unparalleled devotion to principle, of unbounded honor, and of the highest chivalry. How one of them, or all of them, could claim any of these attributes of which they had so long boasted, and yet be privy to depriving even a single colored man of the right which the Nation had given him, or to making the exercise of that right a mockery, he could not conceive; and he would not believe that they would do it when once the scales of prejudice and resentment had fallen from their eyes. If they had been wronged and outraged as a people, their only fit revenge was to display a manhood and a magnanimity which should attest the superiority upon which they prided themselves.

  This address was received by his white hearers with surprised silence; by the colored men with half-appreciative cheers. They recognized that the speaker was their friend, and in favor of their being allowed the free exercise of the rights of citizenship. His white auditors saw that he was assailing with some bitterness and earnest indignation both their conduct and what they had been accustomed to term their principles. There was no immediate display of hostility or anger; and Hesden Le Moyne returned to his home full of hope that the time was at hand for which he had so long yearned, when the people of his native South should abandon the career of prejudice and violence into which they had been betrayed by resentment and passion.

  Early the next morning some of his friends waited upon him and adjured him, for his own sake, for the sake of his family and friends, to withdraw from the canvass. This he refused to do. He said that what he advocated was the result of earnest conviction, and he should always despise himself should he abandon the course he had calmly decided to take. Whatever the result, he would continue to the end. Then they cautiously intimated to him that his course was fraught with personal danger. "What!" he cried, "do you expect me to flinch at the thought of danger? I offered my life and gave an arm for a cause in which I did not believe; shall I not brave as much in the endeavor to serve my country in a manner which my mind and conscience approve? I seek for difficulty with no one; but it may as well be understood that Hesden Le Moyne does not turn in his tracks because of any man's anger. I say to you plainly that I shall neither offer personal insult nor submit to it in this canvass."

  His friends left him with heavy hearts, for they foreboded ill. It was not many days before he found that the storm of detraction and contumely through which he had once passed was but a gentle shower compared with the tornado which now came down upon his head. The newspapers overflowed with threat, denunciation, and abuse. One of them declared:

  "The man who thinks that he can lead an opposition against the organized Democracy of Horsford County is not only very presumptuous, but extremely bold. Such a man will require a bodyguard of Democrats in his canvass and a Gibraltar in his rear on the day of the election."

  Another said:

  "The Radical candidate would do well to take advice. The white men of the State desire a peaceful summer and autumn. They are wearied of heated political strife. If they are forced to vigorous action it will be exceedingly vigorous, perhaps unpleasantly so. Those who cause the trouble will suffer most from it. Bear that in mind, persons colored and white-skinned. We reiterate our advice to the reflective and argumentative Radical leader, to be careful how he goes, and not stir up the animals too freely; they have teeth and claws."

  Still another said:

  "Will our people suffer a covert danger to rankle in their midst until it gains strength to burst into an open enemy? Will they tamely submit while Hesden Le Moyne rallies the colored men to his standard and hands over Horsford to the enemy? Will they stand idly and supinely, and witness the consummation of such an infamous conspiracy? No! a thousand times, No! Awake! stir up your clubs; let the shout go up; put on your red shirts and let the ride begin. Let the young men take the van, or we shall be sold into political slavery."

  Another sounded the key-note of hostility in these words:

  "Every white man who dares to avow himself a Radical should be promptly branded as the bitter and malignant enemy of the South; every man who presumes to aspire to office through Republican votes should be saturated with stench. As for the negroes, let them amuse themselves, if they will, by voting the Radical ticket. We have the count. We have a thousand good and true men in Horsford whose brave ballots will be found equal to those of five thousand vile Radicals."

  One of his opponents, in a most virulent speech, called attention to the example of a celebrated Confederate general. "He, too," said the impassioned orator, "served the Confederacy as bravely as Hesden Le Moyne, and far more ably. But he became impregnated with the virus of Radicalism; he abandoned and betrayed the cause for which he fought; he deserted the Southern people in the hour of need and joined their enemies. He was begged and implored not to persevere in his course, but he drifted on and on, and floundered deeper and deeper into the mire, until he landed fast in the slough where he sticks to-day. And what has he gained? Scorn, ostracism, odiurn, ill-will — worse than all, the contempt of the men who stood by him in the shower of death and destruction. Let Hesden Le Moyne take warning by his example."

  And so it went on, day after day. Personal affront was studiously avoided, but in general terms he was held up to the scorn and contempt of all honest men as a renegade and a traitor. Those who had seemed his friends fell away from him; the home which had been crowded with pleasant associates was desolate, or frequented only by those who came to remonstrate or to threaten. He saw his mistake, but he knew that anger was worse than useless. He did not seek to enrage, but to convince. Failing in this, he simply performed the duty which he had undertaken, as he said he would do it — fearlessly, openly, and faithfully.

  The election came, and the result — was what he should have been wise enough to foresee. Nevertheless, it was a great and grievous disappointment to Hesden Le Moyne. Not that he cared about a seat in the Legislature; but it was a demonstration to him that in his estimate of the people of whom he had been so proud he had erred upon the side of charity. He had believed them better than they had shown themselves. The fair future which he had hoped was so near at hand seemed more remote than ever. His hope for his people and his State was crushed, and apprehension of unspeakable evil in the future forced itself upon his heart.

  CHAPTER LIX

  THE SHUTTLECOCK OF FATE

  Table of Contents

  "Marse Hesden, Marse Hesden!" There was a timorous rap upon the window of Hesden Le Moyne's sleeping-room in the middle of the night, and, waking, he heard his name called in a low, cautious voice.

  "Who is there?" he asked.

  "Sh — sh! Don't talk so loud, Marse Hesden. Please come out h'yer a minnit, won't yer?"

  The voice was evidently that of a colored man, and Hesden had no apprehension or hesitancy in complying with the request. In fact, his position as a recognized friend of the colored race had made such appeals to his kindness and protection by no means unusual. He rose at once, and stepped out upon the porch. He was absent for a little while, and when he returned his voice was full of emotion as he said to his wife,

  "Mollie, t
here is a man here who is hungry and weary. I do not wish the servants to know of his presence. Can you get him something to eat without making any stir?"

  "Why, what — " began Mollie.

  "It will be best not to stop for any questions," said Hesden hurriedly, as he lighted a lamp and, pouring some liquor into a glass, started to return. "Get whatever you can at once, and bring it to the room above. I will go and make up a fire."

  Mollie rose, and, throwing on a wrapper, proceeded to comply with her husband's request. But a few moments had elapsed when she went up the stairs bearing a well-laden tray. Her slippered feet made no noise, and when she reached the chamber-door she saw her husband kneeling before the fire, which was just beginning to burn brightly. The light shone also upon a colored man of powerful frame who sat upon a chair a little way back, his hat upon the floor beside him, his gray head inclined upon his breast, and his whole attitude indicating exhaustion.

  "Here it is, Hesden," she said quietly, as she stepped into the room.

  The colored man raised his head wearily as she spoke, and turned toward her a gaunt face half hidden by a gray, scraggly beard. No sooner did his eyes rest upon her than they opened wide in amazement. He sprang from his chair, put his hand to his head, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming, and said,

  "What! — yer ain't — 'fore God it must be — Miss Mollie!"

  "Oh, Nimbus!" cried Mollie, with a shriek. Her face was pale as ashes, and she would have fallen had not Hesden sprang to her side and supported her with his arm, while he said,

  "Hush! hush! You must not speak so loud. I did not expect you so soon or I would have told you."

  The colored man fell upon his knees, and gazed in wonder on the scene.

  "Oh, Marse Hesden!" he cried, "is it — can it be our Miss Mollie, or has Nimbus gone clean crazy wid de rest ob his misfortins?"

  "No, indeed!" said Hesden. "It is really Miss Mollie, only I have stolen her away from her old friends and made her mine."

  "There is no mistake about it, Nimbus," said Mollie, as she extended her hand, which the colored man clasped in both his own and covered with tears and kisses, while he said, between his sobs,

  "Tank God! T'ank God! Nimbus don't keer now! He ain't afeared ob nuffin' no mo', now he's seen de little angel dat use ter watch ober him, an' dat he's been a-dreamin' on all dese yeahs! Bress God, she's alive! Dar ain't no need ter ax fer 'Gena ner de little ones now; I knows dey's all right! Miss Mollie's done tuk keer o' dem, else she wouldn't be h'yer now. Bress de Lord, I sees de deah little lamb once mo'."

  "There, there!" said Mollie gently. "You must not talk any more now. I have brought you something to eat. You are tired and hungry. You must eat now. Everything is all right. 'Gena and the children are well, and have been looking for you every day since you went away."

  "Bress God! Bress God! I don't want nuffin' mo' !" said Nimbus. He would have gone on, in a wild rhapsody of delight, but both Hesden and Mollie interposed and compelled him to desist and eat. Ah! it was a royal meal that the poor fugitive had spread before him. Mollie brought some milk. A coffee-pot was placed upon the fire, and while he ate they told him of some of the changes that had taken place. When at length Hesden took him into the room where Eliab had remained concealed so long, and closed the door and locked it upon him, they could still hear the low tones of thankful prayer coming from within. Hesden knocked upon the door to enjoin silence, and they returned to their room, wondering at the Providence which had justified the faith of the long-widowed colored wife.

  The next day Hesden went to the Court House to ascertain what charges there were against Nimbus. He found there were none. The old prosecution for seducing the laborers of Mr. Sykes had long ago been discontinued. Strangely enough, no others had been instituted against him. For some reason the law had not been appealed to to avenge the injuries of the marauders who had devastated Red Wing. On his return, Hesden came by way of Red Wing and brought Eliab home with him.

  The meeting between the two old friends was very affecting. Since the disappearance of Nimbus, Eliab had grown more self-reliant. His two years and more of attendance at a Northern school had widened and deepened his manhood as well as increased his knowledge, and the charge of the school at Red Wing had completed the work there begun. His self-consciousness had diminished, and it no longer required the spur of intense excitement to make him forget his affliction. His last injuries had made him even more helpless, when separated from his rolling-chair, but his life had been too full to enable him to dwell upon his weakness so constantly as formerly.

  In Nimbus there was a change even more apparent. Gray hairs, a bowed form, a furrowed face, and that sort of furtive wildness which characterizes the man long hunted by his enemies, had taken the place of his former unfearing, bull-fronted ruggedness. His spirit was broken. He no longer looked to the future with abounding hope, careless of its dangers.

  "Yer's growed away from me, Bre'er 'Liab," he said at length, when they had held each other's hands and looked into each other's faces for a long time. "Yer wouldn't know how ter take a holt o' Nimbus ter hev him tote yer roun', now. Yer's growed away from him — clean away," he added sadly.

  "You, too, have changed, Brother Nimbus," said Eliab soothingly.

  "Yes, I'se changed, ob co'se; but not as you hez, Bre'er 'Liab. Dis h'yer ole shell hez changed. Nimbus couldn't tote yer roun' like he used. I'se hed a hard time — a hard time, 'Liab, an' I ain't nuffin' like de man, I used ter be; but I hain't changed inside like you hez. I'se jes de same ole Nimbus dat I allus wuz — jes de same, only kinder broke down in sperrit, Bre'er 'Liab. I hain't growed ez you hev. I hain't no mo' man dan I was den — not so much, in fac'. I don't keer now no mo' 'bout what's a-gwine ter be. I'se an' ole man, 'Liab — an' ole man, of I is young."

  That night he told his story to a breathless auditory.

  "Yes, Bre'er 'Liab, dar's a heap o' t'ings happened sence dat ar mornin' I lef' you h'yer wid Marse Hesden. Yer see, I went back fust whar I'd lef Berry, an' we tuk an' druv de mule an' carry-all inter a big pine thicket, down by de ribber, an' dar we stays all day mighty close; only once, when I went out by de road an' sees Miss Mollie ridin' by. I calls out to her jest ez loudez I dared to; but, la sakes! she didn't h'year me."

  "Was that you, Nimbus?" asked Mollie, turning from a bright-eyed successor to little Hildreth, whom she had been proudly caressing. "I thought I heard some one call me, but did not think of its being you. I am so sorry! I stopped and looked, but could see nothing."

  "No, you didn't see me, Miss Mollie, but it done me a power o' good ter see you. I knowed yer was gwine ter Red Wing, an' yer'd take keer on an' advise dem ez wuz left dar. Wal, dat night we went back an' got the 'backer out o' de barn. I tuk a look roun' de house, an' went ter de smoke-house, an' got a ham of meat an' some other t'ings. I 'llowed dat 'Gena'd know I'd been dar, but didn't dare ter say nuffin' ter nobody, fer fear de sheriff's folks mout be a watchin' roun'. I 'llowed dey'd hev out a warrant for me, an' p'raps fer Berry too, on account o' what we'd done de night afo'."

  "They never did," said Hesden.

  "Yer don't tell me!" exclaimed Nimbus, in surprise.

  "No. There has never been any criminal process against you, except for enticing Berry away from old Granville Sykes," said Hesden.

  "Wal," responded Nimbus, "t'was all de same. I t'ought dey would. De udder wuz 'nough, dough. Ef dey could once cotch me on dat, I reckon dey could hev hung me fer nuffin', fer dat matter."

  "It was a very wise thing in you to leave the country," said Hesden.

  "There is no doubt of that."

  "T'ank ye, Marse Hesden, t'ank ye," said Nimbus. "I'se glad ter know I hain't been a fool allus, ef I is now. But now I t'inks on't, Marse Hesden, I'd like ter know what come of dem men dat 'Gena an' me put our marks on dat night."

  "One of them died a year or two afterward — was never well after that night — and the other is here, alive and well, with a queer seam down the middle of his face,
" said Hesden.

  "Died, yer say?" said Nimbus. "Wal, I'se right sorry, but he lived a heap longer nor Bre'er 'Liab would, ef I hadn't come in jest about dat time."

  "Yes, indeed," said Eliab, as he extended his hand to his old friend.

  "Wal," continued Nimbus, "we went on ter Wellsboro, an' dar we sold de 'backer. Den we kinder divided up. I tuk most o' de money an' went on South, an' Berry tuk de mule an' carry-all an' started fer his home in Hanson County. I tuk de cars an' went on, a-stoppin' at one place an' anodder, an' a wukkin' a little h'yer an' dar, but jest a-'spectin' ebbery minnit ter be gobbled up by a officer an' brought back h'yer. I'd heard dat Texas wuz a good place fer dem ter go ter dat didn't want nobody ter find 'em; so I sot out ter go dar. When I got ez fur ez Fairfax, in Louisiana, I was tuk down wid de fever, an' fer nigh 'bout six month I wa'ant ob no account whatebber. An' who yer tink tuk keer ob me den, Marse Hesden?"

  "I am sure I don't know," was the reply.

  "No, yer wouldn't nebber guess," said Nimbus; "but twa'n't nobody else but my old mammy, Lorency."

  "You don't say! Well, that was strange," said Hesden.

  "It was quare, Marse Hesden. She was gittin' on to be a old woman den. She's dead sence. Yer see, she knowed me by my name, an' she tuk keer on me, else I'd nebber been here ter tell on't. Atter I got better like, she sorter persuaded me ter stay dar. I wuz powerful homesick, an' wanted ter h'year from 'Gena an' de chillen, an' ef I'd hed money 'nough left, I'd a come straight back h'yer; but what with travellin' an' doctors' bills, an' de like, I hadn't nary cent. Den I couldn't leave my ole mammy, nuther. She'd hed a hard time sence de wah, a-wukkin' fer herself all alone, an' I wuz boun' ter help her all I could. I got a man to write ter Miss Mollie; but de letter come back sayin' she wa'n't h'yer no mo'. Den I got him to write ter whar she'd been afo' she come South; but that come back too."