Miss Wynn did not pause. She whispered: “This is the tale of Civil Service Reform, and how this mighty government gets rid of black men who know too much.”
“But—” Bles tried to protest.
“Hush,” Miss Wynn commanded and they joined the group about the piano. Teerswell, who was speaking, affected not to notice them, and continued:
“—I tell you, it’s got to come. We must act independently and not be bought by a few offices.”
“That’s all well enough for you to talk, Teerswell; you have no wife and babies dependant on you. Why should we who have sacrifice the substance for the shadow?”
“You see, the Judge has got the substance,” laughed Teerswell. “Still I insist: divide and conquer.”
“Nonsense! Unite, and keep.”
Bles was puzzled.
“They’re talking of the coming campaign,” said Miss Wynn.
“What!” exclaimed Bles aloud. “You don’t mean that any one can advise a black man to vote the Democratic ticket?”
An elderly man turned to them.
“Thank you, sir,” he said; “that is just my attitude; I fought for my freedom. I know what slavery is; may I forget God when I vote for traitors and slave-holders.”
The discussion waxed warm and Miss Wynn turned away and sought Miss Jones.
“Come, my dear,” she said, “it’s ‘The Problem’ again.” They sauntered away toward a ring of laughter.
The discussion thus begun at Miss Wynn’s did not end there. It was on the eve of the great party conventions, and the next night Sam Stillings came around to get some crumbs from this assembly of the inner circle, into which Alwyn had been so unaccountably snatched, and outside of which, despite his endeavors, Stillings lingered and seemed destined to linger. But Stillings was a patient, resolute man beneath his deferential exterior, and he saw in Bles a stepping stone. So he began to drop in at his lodgings and tonight invited him to the Bethel Literary.
“What’s that?” asked Bles.
“A debating club—oldest in the city; the best people all attend.”
Bles hesitated. He had half made up his mind that this was the proper time to call on Miss Wynn. He told Stillings so, and told him also of the evening and the discussion.
“Why, that’s the subject up tonight,” Stillings declared, “and Miss Wynn will be sure to be there. You can make your call later. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking me when you call.” Alwyn reached for his hat.
When they arrived, the basement of the great church was filling with a throng of men and women. Soon the officers and the speaker of the evening appeared. The president was a brown woman who spoke easily and well, and introduced the main speaker. He was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced black man, clean shaven and well dressed, a lawyer by profession. His theme was “The Democratic Party and the Negro.” His argument was cool, carefully reasoned, and plausible. He was evidently feeling for the sympathy of his audience, and while they were not enthusiastic, they warmed to him gradually and he certainly was strongly impressing them.
Bles was thinking. He sat in the back of the hall, tense, alert, nervous. As the speaker progressed a white man came in and sat down beside him. He was spectacled, with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look. But he did not sleep. He was very observant.
“Who’s speaking?” he asked Bles, and Bles told him. Then he inquired about one or two other persons. Bles could not inform him, but Stillings could and did. Stillings seemed willing to devote considerable time to him.
Bles forgot the man. He was almost crouching for a spring, and no sooner had the speaker, with a really fine apostrophe to independence and reason in voting, sat down, than Bles was on his feet, walking forward. His form was commanding, his voice deep and musical, and his earnestness terribly evident. He hardly waited for recognition from the slightly astonished president, but fairly burst into speech.
“I am from Alabama,” he began earnestly, “and I know the Democratic Party.” Then he told of government and conditions in the Black Belt, of the lying, oppression, and helplessness of the sodden black masses; then, turning, he reminded them of the history of slavery. Finally, he pointed to Lincoln’s picture and to Sumner’s and mentioned other white friends.
“And, my brothers, they are not all dead yet. The gentleman spoke of Senator Smith and blamed and ridiculed him. I know Senator Smith but slightly, but I do know his sister well.”
Dropping to simple narrative, he told of Miss Smith and of his coming to school; and if his audience felt that great depth of emotion that welled beneath his quiet, almost hesitating, address, it was not simply because of what he did say, but because, too, of the unspoken story that lay too deep for words. He spoke for nearly an hour, and when he stopped, for a moment his hearers sighed and then sprang into a whirlwind of applause. They shouted, clapped, and waved while he sat in blank amazement, and was with difficulty forced to the rostrum to bow again and again. The spectacled white man leaned over to Stillings.
“Who is he?” he asked. Stillings told him. The man noted the name and went quietly out.
Miss Wynn sat lost in thought, and Teerswell beside her fumed. She was not easily moved, but that speech had moved her. If he could thus stir men and not be himself swayed, she mused, he would be—invincible. But tonight he was moved as greatly as his hearers had been, and that was dangerous. If his intense belief happened to be popular, all right; but if not? She frowned. He was worth watching, she concluded; quite worth watching, and perhaps worth guiding.
When Alwyn accompanied her home that night, Miss Wynn set herself to know him better for she suspected that he might be a coming man. The best preliminary to her purpose was, she knew, to speak frankly of herself, and that she did. She told him of her youth and training, her ambitions, her disappointments. Quite unconsciously her cynicism crept to the fore, until in word and tone she had almost scoffed at many things that Alwyn held true and dear. The touch was too light, the meaning too elusive, for Alwyn to grasp always the point of attack; but somehow he got the distant impression that Miss Wynn had little faith in Truth and Goodness and Love. Vaguely shocked he grew so silent that she noticed it and concluded she had said too much. But he pursued the subject.
“Surely there must be many friends of our race willing to stand for the right and sacrifice for it?”
She laughed unpleasantly, almost mockingly.
“Where?”
“Well—there’s Miss Smith.”
“She gets a salary, doesn’t she?”
“A very small one.”
“About as large as she could earn. North, I don’t doubt.”
“But the unselfish work she does—the utter sacrifice?”
“Oh, well, we’ll omit Alabama, and admit the exception.”
“Well, here, in Washington—there’s your friend, the Judge, who has befriended you so, as you admit.”
She laughed again.
“You remember our visit to Senator Smith?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it got the Judge his reappointment to the school board.”
“He deserved it, didn’t he?”
“I deserved it,” she said luxuriously, hugging her knee and smiling; “you see, his appointment meant mine.”
“Well, what of it—didn’t—”
“Listen,” she cut in a little sharply. “Once a young brown girl, with boundless faith in white folks, went to a Judge’s office to ask for an appointment which she deserved. There was no one there. The benign old Judge with his saintly face and white hair suggested that she lay aside her wraps and spend the afternoon.”
Bles arose to his feet.
“What—what did you do?” he asked.
“Sit down—there’s a good boy.” I said: ‘Judge, a friend is expecting me at two,’ it was then half-past one, ‘would I not best telephone?’ ”
“ ‘Step right into the booth,’ said the Judge, quite indulgently.” Miss Wynn leaned back, and Bles felt his heart sinking; but he said noth
ing. “And then,” she continued, “I telephoned the Judge’s wife that he was anxious to see her on a matter of urgent business; namely, my appointment.” She gazed reflectively out of the window. “You should have seen his face when I told him,” she concluded. “I was appointed.”
But Bles asked coldly:
“Why didn’t you have him arrested?”
“For what? And suppose I had?”
Bles threw out his arms helplessly.
“Oh! it isn’t as bad as that all over the world, is it?”
“It’s worse,” affirmed Miss Wynn, quietly positive.
“And you are still friendly with him?”
“What would you have? I use the world; I did not make it; I did not choose it. He is the world. Through him I earn my bread and butter. I have shown him his place. Shall I try in addition to reform? Shall I make him an enemy? I have neither time nor inclination. Shall I resign and beg, or go tilting at windmills? If he were the only one it would be different; but they’re all alike.” Her face grew hard. “Have I shocked you?” she said as they went toward the door.
“No,” he answered slowly. “But I still—believe in the world.”
“You are young yet, my friend,” she lightly replied. “And besides, that good Miss Smith has gone and grafted a New England conscience on a tropical heart, and—dear me!—but it’s a gorgeous misfit. Good-bye—come again.” She bowed him graciously out, and paused to take the mail from the box. There was, among many others, a letter from Senator Smith.
Twenty-five
THE CAMPAIGN
Mr. Easterly sat in Mrs. Vanderpool’s apartments in the New Willard, Washington, drinking tea. His hostess was saying rather carelessly:
“Do you know, Mr. Vanderpool has developed a quite unaccountable liking for the idea of being Ambassador to France?”
“Dear me!” mildly exclaimed Mr. Easterly, helping himself liberally to cakes. “I do hope the thing can be managed, but—”
“What are the difficulties?” Mrs. Vanderpool interrupted.
“Well, first and foremost, the difficulty of electing our man.”
“I thought that a foregone conclusion.”
“It was. But do you know that we’re encountering opposition from the most unexpected source?”
The lady was receptive, and the speaker concluded:
“The Negroes.”
“The Negroes!”
“Yes. There are five hundred thousand or more black voters in pivotal Northern States, you know, and they’re in revolt. In a close election the Negroes of New York, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois choose the President.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, business interests have driven our party to make friends with the South. The South has disfranchised Negroes and lynched a few. The darkies say we’ve deserted them.”
Mrs. Vanderpool laughed.
“What extraordinary penetration,” she cried.
“At any rate,” said Mr. Easterly, drily, “Mr. Vanderpool’s first step toward Paris lies in getting the Northern Negroes to vote the Republican ticket. After that the way is clear.”
Mrs. Vanderpool mused.
“I don’t suppose you know any one who is acquainted with any number of these Northern darkies?” continued Mr. Easterly.
“Not on my calling-list,” said Mrs. Vanderpool, and then she added more thoughtfully:
“There’s a young clerk in the Treasury Department named Alwyn who has brains. He’s just from the South, and I happened to read of him this morning—see here.”
Mr. Easterly read an account of the speech at the Bethel Literary.
“We’ll look this young man up,” he decided; “he may help. Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool, we’ll probably win; we can buy these Negroes off with a little money and a few small offices; then if you will use your influence for the part with the Southerners, I can confidently predict from four to eight years’ sojourn in Paris.”
Mrs. Vanderpool smiled and called her maid as Mr. Easterly went.
“Zora!” She had to call twice, for Zora, with widened eyes, was reading the Washington Post.
Meantime in the office of Senator Smith, toward which Mr. Easterly was making his way, several members of the National Republican campaign committee had been closeted the day before.
“Now, about the niggers,” the chairman had asked; “how much more boodle do they want?”
“That’s what’s bothering us,” announced a member; “it isn’t the boodle crowd that’s hollering, but a new set, and I don’t understand them; I don’t know what they represent, nor just how influential they are.”
“What can I do to help you?” asked Senator Smith.
“This. You are here at Washington with these Negro office-holders at your back. Find out for us just what this revolt is, how far it goes, and what good men we can get to swing the darkies into line—see?”
“Very good,” the Senator acquiesced. He called in a spectacled man with bushy eyebrows and a sleepy look.
“I want you to work the Negro political situation,” directed the Senator, “and bring me all the data you can get. Personally, I’m at sea. I don’t understand the Negro of today at all; he puzzles me; he doesn’t fit any of my categories, and I suspect that I don’t fit his. See what you can find out.”
The man went out, and the Senator turned to his desk, then paused and smiled. One day, not long since, he had met a colored person who personified his perplexity concerning Negroes; she was a lady, yet she was black—that is, brown; she was educated, even cultured, yet she taught Negroes; she was quiet, astute, quick and diplomatic—everything, in fact, that “Negroes” were not supposed to be; and yet she was a “Negro.” She had given him valuable information which he had sought in vain elsewhere, and the event proved it correct. Suppose he asked Caroline Wynn to help him in this case? It would certainly do no harm and it might elect a Republican president. He wrote a short letter with his own hand and sent it to post.
Miss Wynn read the letter after Alwyn’s departure with a distinct thrill which was something of a luxury for her. Evidently she was coming to her kingdom. The Republican boss was turning to her for confidential information.
“What do the colored people want, and who can best influence them in this campaign?”
She curled up on the ottoman and considered. The first part of the query did not bother her.
“Whatever they want they won’t get,” she said decisively.
But as to the man or men who could influence them to believe that they were getting, or about to get, what they wanted—there was a question. One by one she considered the men she knew, and, by a process of elimination, finally arrived at Bles Alwyn.
Why not take this young man in hand and make a Negro leader of him—a protagonist of ten millions? It would not be unpleasant. But could she do it? Would he be amenable to her training and become worldly wise? She flattered herself that he would, and yet—there was a certain steadfast look in the depths of his eyes that might prove to be sheer stubbornness. At any rate, who was better? There was a fellow, Stillings, whom Alwyn had introduced and whom she had heard of. Now he was a politician—but nothing else. She dismissed him. Of course, there was the older set of office-holders and rounders. But she was determined to pick a new man. He was worth trying, at any rate; she knew none other with the same build, the brains, the gifts, the adorable youth. Very good. She wrote two letters, and then curled up to her novel and candy.
Next day Senator Smith held Miss Wynn’s letter unopened in his hand when Mr. Easterly entered. They talked of the campaign and various matters, until at last Easterly said:
“Say, there’s a Negro clerk in the Treasury named Alwyn.”
“I know him—I had him appointed.”
“Good. He may help us. Have you seen this?”
The Senator read the clipping.
“I hadn’t noticed it—but here’s my agent.”
The spectacled man entered with a mass of documents.
He had papers, posters, programmes, and letters.
“The situation is this,” he said. “A small group of educated Negroes are trying to induce the rest to punish the Republican Party for not protecting them. These men are not politicians, nor popular leaders, but they have influence and are using it. The old-style Negro politicians are no match for them, and the crowd of office-holders are rather bewildered. Strong measures are needed. Educated men of earnestness and ability might stem the tide. And I believe I know one such man. He spoke at a big meeting last night at the Metropolitan church. His name is Alwyn.”
Senator Smith listened as he opened the letter from Caroline Wynn. Then he started.
“Well!” he ejaculated, looking quickly up at Easterly. “This is positively uncanny. From three separate sources the name of Alwyn pops up. Looks like a mascot. Call up the Treasury. Let’s have him up when the sub-committee meets to-morrow.”
Bles Alwyn hurried up to Senator Smith’s office, hoping to hear something about the school; perhaps even about—but he stopped with a sigh, and sat down in the ante-room. He was kept waiting a few moments while Senator Smith, the chairman, and one other member of the sub-committee had a word.
“Now, I don’t know the young man, mind you,” said the Senator; “but he’s strongly recommended.”
“What shall we offer him?” asked the chairman.
“Try him at twenty-five dollars a speech. If he balks, raise to fifty dollars, but no more.”
They summoned the young man. The chairman produced cigars.
“I don’t smoke,” said Bles apologetically.
“Well, we haven’t anything to drink,” said the chairman. But Senator Smith broke in, taking up at once the paramount interest.
“Mr. Alwyn, as you know, the Democrats are making an effort to get the Negro vote in this campaign. Now, I know the disadvantages and wrongs which black men in this land are suffering. I believe the Republicans ought to do more to defend them, and I’m satisfied they will; but I doubt if the way to get Negro rights is to vote for those who took them away.”
“I agree with you perfectly,” said Bles.
The Quest of the Silver Fleece Page 22
