A Treasury of African American Christmas Stories

by Bettye Collier-Thomas

  Old Nat Forrester, who was three score and ten and an old Confederate soldier, sent word by a Negro boy to Ella Stratton, his great niece, that he wanted to have an immediate talk with her at his farm home. She, expecting treachery in some form, perhaps kidnapping, refused to go. Old Nat Forrester then rode down to Uncle Tom Tatum’s cabin and called her out and remarked:

  “Now see here, Ella, you’s my brother’s gran’ darter an’ I recon’ I’se there only old member of our family. Now, I want ter to say ter you gal, that you have disgraced an honorable family of true blue [blooded] southern people by taken up with a nigger. I don’t blame you gal, [cause you] is run away when you was young and I recon’ you got mixed up with them d—- Yankees who thinks that niggers are as good as white folks, but they is not. Niggers is only like horses and mules—made to work for white folks. They are not human beings, they have no souls and were only made to be slaves before the war and servants now, they ——.”

  “Well Uncle Nat, if these people or brutes as you call them are not human, how is it that white men associate with women of this breed? How is it that two-thirds of these people have white blood in their veins? How is it that some ‘niggers’ as you call them are fairer than some whites? Have not ‘niggers’ who have white fathers souls? Are not ‘niggers’ who are as white as ourselves men and women?”

  “Well—er—er—well, no; one drop of nigger blood in a person makes him a nigger.”

  “I cannot accept either your terms, logic or your appeal, so good day. You mind your own business and we will attend to ours. We will leave this God forsaken country in a few days, never to return.”

  With these words she shut the door into old Nat Forrester’s face. With a heart full of grief this old gentleman of the “State Rights” state of South Carolina returned homeward. He stopped at the cross road hamlet, known as C___ village where he made his report, the result of which it was decided by five of the best citizens in the community that the girl would be sent to a private insane asylum, and the nigger be burned alive at the stake. So said Jack Nash, the lawyer, and everyone said “that’s so.” It was decided to burn Stratton at the stake after Christmas. Their deep reverence for the Christmas holidays only prevented them taking actions at once.

  Chapter IX FAREWELL PRAYER

  “’Twas the night before Christmas,” in the year of our Lord, 1897. The time a little after sunset, what they call in the Southland “candle light,” that Uncle Tom Tatum rushed in his log cabin, where Jerry and Ella Stratton were stopping.

  His face bore an excited and frightened look; his eyes protruded from his head; his nostrils expanded; his lips turned gray; his whole body shook with fear. It was several minutes before he could speak. He at last spoke: “Mister Strattum an’ Mist Eller, fo’ de Lawd sake; yes fo’ hebben sake! please ter go’ way; please ter leave my house; please do’ git there ole man inter trubble; please don’t git me kilt; please—”

  “What in thunder’s the matter with you Uncle Tom? Are you drunk or crazy?”

  “I’se nuther drunk nor crazy, but I wants ter tell yo’ all deys comin’ to lynch yo’ after Christmuss ef dey finds yo’ all here, an’ dey may lynch me too, so please leave my house ter once. I’se sorry—mighty sorry, but I can’t hope it.”

  “What are you talking about, Uncle Tom?” asked the woman.

  “Why Missie yo’ see its dis way: de white folks down here don’t like ter see yo’ messin’ wid we black man. Taint right lees more dey don’t think it is right. Dey don’t like Mistar Strattum an’ deys comin ter lynch him, less more, burn him up, less him and yo’ gits out of there place ter once, or less more there day after Christmuss; so fer my sake please git out.”

  During this pleading the old man fell upon his knees, “Ef you’ don’t git out I must; but if I does I’s lose all of my property.”

  Uncle Tom’s “property,” outside of the two room log cabin, which was built upon rented land, was an old bed, two broken chairs, an ax, a hoe, two spades, five plates, two cups, two knives and forks, one pot, one skillet, a sheep’s gray home spun Sunday suit and a side of bacon: but they were his, and he did not want to loose them; and had also resolved not to loose his life protecting or harboring a stranger from the North upon whose head was the wrath and righteous (?) indignation of the “best white citizens of the community.”

  Jerry and Ella looked at each other while Uncle Tom walked up and down the floor in an excited manner. Stratton was the first to speak: “Now see here, Uncle Tom, we can’t leave here for three or four days, at least before Christmas, so we will buy you out and pay cash. How much do you want for everything in the place you can not carry away; everything but your personal property? That is to say, to make it plain, what will you take for everything you cannot carry in a bag on your back, and what you can replace new with money?”

  “Well,” said the old man, after several minutes’ reflection, “dey otter be worf $25.” Seeing Stratton pull out of his pocket a large roll of bills, the old man added: “Less more dey otter be worf $30 what I leaves hind me. Dey otter—”

  “Well, you sell me everything in the house, besides what you can carry away on your back, Uncle Tom, for $30?” asked Stratton.

  “Yesser,” replied Uncle Tom.

  “Well, Uncle Tom, here is $100 in small bills, now escape for your life.”

  The old man stood for a few minutes in mute surprise, before he spoke: “Young man, I’s sorry fer yo, but yo’ orter knowed better than ter come down here with a white woman, less more if she is your wife. Yo’s got eddykasun; yo’ reads de papers; yo’ knows how dey—there white folks—down here does our folks. I’s an ole man ‘bout seventy-five. I can’t live much longer, but I does not want ter be lynched. I wants ter live out my time an’ go to hebben when I dies. Is yo’ got ‘ligion or is yo’ er sinner man, Mist Strattum?”

  “Well, Uncle Tom, I am what you emotional Baptist and Methodist good folks would call a ‘sinner man.’ I have not got what you would call religion.”

  “Den I’se goin’ ter pray fer yo’ soul,” replied Uncle Tom. He took off his hat, placed it upon the table, knelt down and motioned them, in a commanding way to kneel; they obeyed. All was silent for two or three minutes. It was silent prayer, (at least on the part of Uncle Tom). At last Uncle Tom began to pray in a low, solemn voice, clear and distinct. He pleaded with the “God of his fathers” not to forsake the American Negro, in this, the darkest hour in his history; he asked the “Supreme Judge” to decide in favor of justice, truth and right. He appealed to the “God of Battles” to fight the Negro’s cause for “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” He implored the “Prince of Peace” to bring about the friendly relations between the two races that existed before the Civil War, when the interest of “man and master” were one. He imploringly asked the “God of Truth and Love” why it was that the two races could not get along together, as of yore. Was it because the present white folks were better than their forefathers, or was the black people of to-day worse—more dishonest and immoral than their parents of the days of bondage. He asked the “God of Heaven and Earth” to speed the day when the spirit of prejudice would disappear like the morning mist, as the sun of civilization rises towards its zenith, and men learn, with the aid of a broken education and more enlightened mental vision, that we all have a common heritage of virtues and—failings from whatever race we may be descended. He then prayed for Stratton’s salvation, on this the eve of his untimely death, and ended his prayer in the good old Baptist style with: “After all our work is done here on earth, han’ us down ter our co’d water graves in peace, and raise our spirrits high and happy in de kingdum is my prayer.”

  It was an eloquent prayer and sermon. It was delivered in the broken Negro dialect of his section. It was, however, a prayer we hope will be answered in the near future.

  They arose and stood in silence for a few moments. Stratton was the first to speak: “Uncle Tom, how in the world am I to be ‘handed down to a cold
water grave in peace,’ if they are going to burn me at the stake? Where did you get that cold water grave business?”

  “Why, out of their Bible, yo’ knows. Yo’ kin read: yo’ know where to find it in two eye John or some other part; any way I must go, so good bye my son, good bye my gal, God bless yo’ both,” and Uncle Tom rushed out and was soon lost in the woods.

  Chapter X THE VIGILANT COMMITTEE’S DECISION

  Jerry and Ella Stratton watched Uncle Tom disappear in the twilight through the woods; they then faced each other and stood in silence for two or three minutes. Ella at last broke down and burst out in tears: “Oh Jerry forgive me! Oh please forgive me for bringing you here to your death; but I will die with you—if they lynch you, they must also lynch your wife. Yes, they must lynch us both. You are the only man I ever truly loved, and a woman will go to and through hell for the man she loves. We will—”

  “Keep quiet Ella until I map out some plan of escape,” interrupted Stratton. “I have it; we will take everything we can carry of value and start for Charleston or some other seaport. We will be able to hire one or two horses and wagons and reach the seashore, then we can take the train together (or at least go on the same train) North until we reach Washington. I have learned that even these lawless Negro hating devils have the profound reverence and respect for the birthday of Christ. They would not dare commit murder on a holy day like Christmas or Good Friday; in the meantime as the old saying is: ‘He who is fore warned is fore armed.’ I will clean up my rifles and place them and the cartridges upon the table, where they will be handy in case of surprise. You can’t trust these people; I have learned that fact the few days we have been here. I know one thing—”

  “Oh Jerry,” interrupted Ella.

  “Don’t interrupt me Ella, you are excited; facts are facts, and the fact of the matter is that we are in a hole and must not stop to debate which one of us got us here, but try to get out. Now there must not be any sleep to-night and at dawn we will start homeward. If we wait until the next day all will be lost, as they will, perhaps, start on their murderous mission the minute after the clock strikes midnight tomorrow and Christmas is a thing of the past until next year. Don’t cry, tears will do no good in this case. You cook that wild duck I shot to-day and make some of Uncle Tom’s corn bread, and we will have what may be our last supper together.”

  Ella started to prepare the supper while Jerry inspected, cleaned and loaded his rifles.

  When Uncle Tom was praying for the white folks of the South in general, and those of his section in particular, that God would change their savage, murderous hearts to those of civilized, human and fair-minded creatures, built in the image of God, a scene was being enacted in the cross road hamlet, (the people of the community flattered it by calling it a village). It was a cross road hamlet of about fifty buildings, consisting of three stores, one cotton warehouse, a blacksmith shop, a carpenter shop, two churches and a “tavern” or hotel. The rest of the buildings were private homes of the “best families” of the county.

  Captain Willoughby, the landlord of the tavern, was a little fat old man with a large bald head and sharp dishonest, though business-like eyes. He was what the natives of the community called a “foreigner,” coming from New Orleans (so he said) after the close of the War of Rebellion, where he had been the captain of a Mississippi river packet that coined money before the war, bringing slaves from up the river to the New Orleans slave market. The only proof that his statement was true was that he brought with him a bag of gold with which he bought the old “Thompson tavern,” which had been closed for ten years, and was slowly rotting down. He patched it up, painted it white, furnished it with second hand furniture from Charleston, thereby filling “a long felt want” in the village.

  None but “the best citizens of the community” met there to drink their brandy and sugar or “hot toddy,” and perfect their future plans for good or bad. Every lawless act, from the days of the Klu Klux Klan’s up to the present Christmas Eve, that had been enacted in the neighborhood, was hatched out in old man Willoughby’s “setting” room in the tavern. The tavern had a frontage of about sixty feet and ran back about forty feet. The “setting” room was an old fashioned tavern front room of about forty feet square, the floor of which had first been stained with elder berry juice and then oiled with cotton seed oil, giving it a dull “ox blood” red color. In the right hand corner of the room was the bar, over which Captain Willoughby presided. In the middle of the room was a fire place upon which a cheerful wood fire burned on this evening. Around this fire some were seated at the round table near it, and others were standing. Leaning against the mantle place—were seven out of the ten “best citizens of the community.” They were according to ages: Dr. Tom Baxter, Lawyer Newton Capps, Mr. John Capers, Mr. Tom Marlon, Dr. James J. Bell, Mr. “Buck” Walker (the richest planters in the section) and Martin W. Sykes, a young theological student, whose father was, and grandfather had been, both ministers of the gospel of the Son of God. The grandfather having had more than a local fame, for his missionary work among the Negroes, whom he taught to fear God and obey their masters, proving (or trying to do so) that they were an inferior race, born and created bondmen for the whites.

  The fortunes (or misfortune) of the Civil War, had left Martin W. Sykes a poor man of blue South Carolina blood, and in order to complete his studies for the ministry, he was obliged to earn every honest (?) penny that came his way. He was the youngest man of the seven, being only 25 years old. He had been at the Baltimore Theological College for two years and had one more year to study before he would graduate as a full-fledged minister of the teachings of Christ. Before he went to college he was the local reporter and newsgatherer for the community, and kept the wolf from the door by sending the weekly social and other events of the county to the leading newspaper at Charleston. He had also been the Charleston correspondent of the New York Sensation, a leading yellow journal of Greater New York City.

  Dr. Tom Baxter was the “first citizen of the community.” He was 72 and perfectly healthy in body and mind. He had been, in the good old days before the war, the richest slave holder and “nigger trader” in the state. He was at this time a retired physician and extensive planter and the ruler of the county; a hard task master and a hater of “niggers” and Yankees. His word was law. He was a stately old man, wore square rimmed gold spectacles, and a full beard and bushy head of hair—a mixture of deep red and gray.

  Newton Capps was about 45 years old. He was the legal light of the county and the owner of one of the three stores. He was the man who fired the balls Dr. Baxter made. Dr. Bell was about 50 and was the leading physician in the section. “Buck” Walker was the leading “truck” planter, who furnished early vegetables and strawberries for the markets of New York, Boston, Philadelphia and Chicago. He always had an eye to business.

  Dr. Tom Baxter, Lawyer Newton Capps and the theological student stood with their backs to the fire, while the other members of the “council of war, law and order” were seated around the table discussing the merits of a bottle of brandy and several glasses of hot “toddy.” Dr. Baxter advanced to the middle of the group, took his long reed-stem red clay pipe from his mouth and standing erect with a soldierly posting, and thus addressed his associates:

  “Gentlemen—We do not want to lose sight of the moral necessity of lynching that ‘nigger’—burning him at the stake—in the interest of our wives and daughters. This ‘nigger’ comes here from the North and lives with a white woman—a native of this section, and a member of one of the oldest and most highly respected families of the state. Her grandfather, as most of us know, was a distinguished general in our great war for State Rights. This poor girl (who appears to be demented) ran away North a few years ago and was disowned by an honorable family. Under the teachings of the d— Yankees, who say that they believe a ‘nigger’ is as good as a white man, she has disgraced her clan by associating with a ‘nigger,’ and brings him down here to disgrace us.
Why, this is the most bitter disgrace we have ever been subjugated to, with one exception that was during the war when a company of d—Yankee soldiers came here, took the place, slept in our beds and forced our wives and daughters to cook breakfast for them the next morning before they marched to Charleston. I say we must burn that ‘nigger’ at the stake, not later than day after to-morrow, as a warning to our own ‘niggers’ and a rebuke to the social and civil teachings of these d—Yankees we all hate in our hearts. Let me say gentlemen, I fully believe, yes know, that all loyal Southern white men will hate a Yankee and a ‘nigger’ for several generations hence.”

  These logical remarks (from a Southern white man’s viewpoint) were well taken by those who heard them, and after the majority had expressed their views, which were about the same as their aged leader, it was decided to burn Stratton at the stake the night after Christmas, before the merry makers returned to their distant farms and plantations.

  Martin W. Sykes, Esq., asked permission to add a few remarks, and made a timely suggestion. He deplored the action they were about to take; he called the gentleman’s attention to the fact that executions or burning at the stake without trial by a jury of white men, (if not a jury of the accused peers), was in the eyes of God and the civilized world, murder; but, he added, that there were exceptions to all rules, and the present case was a grave exception. He deplored the fact that the Negro was so much inferior to the white man; that all the preachings and teachings of the superior race could not raise the poor benighted son of Africa up to the high moral standard for the white brother. He agreed with the other gentlemen that, for the good of the community, it was expedient that they burn Stratton at the stake, but that they hang old man Tom (Uncle Tom) to a neighboring tree for the part he had taken in this disgraceful affair. The only point in which he differed from the rest was that he advocated immediate action that night, and pointed to the fact that delays were dangerous. His point was well taken, and it was decided to lynch the two men that night before 12 o’clock. The several other members of the committee went out to notify the poor whites, who were to do the dirty work, while Mr. Martin W. Sykes remained at the tavern and wrote up for the New York Morning Sensation a full account of the lynching.