III
THE EDITOR AT WORK
To go back a little, for several days after his child's birth MajorCarteret's chief interest in life had been confined to the four walls ofthe chamber where his pale wife lay upon her bed of pain, and those ofthe adjoining room where an old black woman crooned lovingly over alittle white infant. A new element had been added to the major'sconsciousness, broadening the scope and deepening the strength of hisaffections. He did not love Olivia the less, for maternity had crownedher wifehood with an added glory; but side by side with this old andtried attachment was a new passion, stirring up dormant hopes andkindling new desires. His regret had been more than personal at thethought that with himself an old name should be lost to the State; andnow all the old pride of race, class, and family welled up anew, andswelled and quickened the current of his life.
Upon the major's first appearance at the office, which took place thesecond day after the child's birth, he opened a box of cigars in honorof the event. The word had been passed around by Ellis, and the wholeoffice force, including reporters, compositors, and pressmen, came in tocongratulate the major and smoke at his expense. Even Jerry, the coloredporter,--Mammy Jane's grandson and therefore a protege of thefamily,--presented himself among the rest, or rather, after the rest.The major shook hands with them all except Jerry, though he acknowledgedthe porter's congratulations with a kind nod and put a good cigar intohis outstretched palm, for which Jerry thanked him without manifestingany consciousness of the omission. He was quite aware that underordinary circumstances the major would not have shaken hands with whiteworkingmen, to say nothing of negroes; and he had merely hoped that inthe pleasurable distraction of the moment the major might also overlookthe distinction of color. Jerry's hope had been shattered, though notrudely; for the major had spoken pleasantly and the cigar was a goodone. Mr. Ellis had once shaken hands with Jerry,--but Mr. Ellis was ayoung man, whose Quaker father had never owned any slaves, and he couldnot be expected to have as much pride as one of the best "quality,"whose families had possessed land and negroes for time out of mind. Onthe whole, Jerry preferred the careless nod of the editor-in-chief tothe more familiar greeting of the subaltern.
Having finished this pleasant ceremony, which left him with acomfortable sense of his new dignity, the major turned to his desk. Ithad been much neglected during the week, and more than one matterclaimed his attention; but as typical of the new trend of his thoughts,the first subject he took up was one bearing upon the future of his son.Quite obviously the career of a Carteret must not be left to chance,--itmust be planned and worked out with a due sense of the value of goodblood.
There lay upon his desk a letter from a well-known promoter, offeringthe major an investment which promised large returns, though severalyears must elapse before the enterprise could be put upon a payingbasis. The element of time, however, was not immediately important. TheMorning Chronicle provided him an ample income. The money available forthis investment was part of his wife's patrimony. It was invested in alocal cotton mill, which was paying ten per cent., but this was abeggarly return compared with the immense profits promised by theoffered investment,--profits which would enable his son, upon reachingmanhood, to take a place in the world commensurate with the dignity ofhis ancestors, one of whom, only a few generations removed, had owned anestate of ninety thousand acres of land and six thousand slaves.
This letter having been disposed of by an answer accepting the offer,the major took up his pen to write an editorial. Public affairs in thestate were not going to his satisfaction. At the last state election hisown party, after an almost unbroken rule of twenty years, had beendefeated by the so-called "Fusion" ticket, a combination of Republicansand Populists. A clean sweep had been made of the offices in the state,which were now filled by new men. Many of the smaller places had gone tocolored men, their people having voted almost solidly for the Fusionticket. In spite of the fact that the population of Wellington was twothirds colored, this state of things was gall and wormwood to thedefeated party, of which the Morning Chronicle was the acknowledgedorgan. Major Carteret shared this feeling. Only this very morning, whilepassing the city hall, on his way to the office, he had seen the stepsof that noble building disfigured by a fringe of job-hunting negroes,for all the world--to use a local simile--like a string of buzzardssitting on a rail, awaiting their opportunity to batten upon thehelpless corpse of a moribund city.
Taking for his theme the unfitness of the negro to participate ingovernment,--an unfitness due to his limited education, his lack ofexperience, his criminal tendencies, and more especially to his hopelessmental and physical inferiority to the white race,--the major haddemonstrated, it seemed to him clearly enough, that the ballot in thehands of the negro was a menace to the commonwealth. He had argued, withentire conviction, that the white and black races could never attainsocial and political harmony by commingling their blood; he had provedby several historical parallels that no two unassimilable races couldever live together except in the relation of superior and inferior; andhe was just dipping his gold pen into the ink to indite his conclusionsfrom the premises thus established, when Jerry, the porter, announcedtwo visitors.
"Gin'l Belmont an' Cap'n McBane would like ter see you, suh."
"Show them in, Jerry."
The man who entered first upon this invitation was a dapper littlegentleman with light-blue eyes and a Vandyke beard. He wore a frockcoat, patent leather shoes, and a Panama hat. There were crow's-feetabout his eyes, which twinkled with a hard and, at times, humorousshrewdness. He had sloping shoulders, small hands and feet, and walkedwith the leisurely step characteristic of those who have been rearedunder hot suns.
Carteret gave his hand cordially to the gentleman thus described.
"How do you do, Captain McBane," he said, turning to the second visitor.
The individual thus addressed was strikingly different in appearancefrom his companion. His broad shoulders, burly form, square jaw, andheavy chin betokened strength, energy, and unscrupulousness. With theexception of a small, bristling mustache, his face was clean shaven,with here and there a speck of dried blood due to a carelessly orunskillfully handled razor. A single deep-set gray eye was shadowed by abeetling brow, over which a crop of coarse black hair, slightly streakedwith gray, fell almost low enough to mingle with his black, bushyeyebrows. His coat had not been brushed for several days, if one mightjudge from the accumulation of dandruff upon the collar, and hisshirt-front, in the middle of which blazed a showy diamond, wasplentifully stained with tobacco juice. He wore a large slouch hat,which, upon entering the office, he removed and held in his hand.
Having greeted this person with an unconscious but quite perceptiblediminution of the warmth with which he had welcomed the other, the majorlooked around the room for seats for his visitors, and perceiving onlyone chair, piled with exchanges, and a broken stool propped against thewall, pushed a button, which rang a bell in the hall, summoning thecolored porter to his presence.
"Jerry," said the editor when his servant appeared, "bring a couple ofchairs for these gentlemen."
While they stood waiting, the visitors congratulated the major on thebirth of his child, which had been announced in the Morning Chronicle,and which the prominence of the family made in some degree a matter ofpublic interest.
"And now that you have a son, major," remarked the gentleman firstdescribed, as he lit one of the major's cigars, "you'll be all the moreinterested in doing something to make this town fit to live in, which iswhat we came up to talk about. Things are in an awful condition! A negrojustice of the peace has opened an office on Market Street, and onlyyesterday summoned a white man to appear before him. Negro lawyers getmost of the business in the criminal court. Last evening a group ofyoung white ladies, going quietly along the street arm-in-arm, wereforced off the sidewalk by a crowd of negro girls. Coming down thestreet just now, I saw a spectacle of social equality and negrodomination that made my blood boil with indignation,--a white and ablack c
onvict, chained together, crossing the city in charge of a negroofficer! We cannot stand that sort of thing, Carteret,--it is the laststraw! Something must be done, and that quickly!"
The major thrilled with responsive emotion. There was somethingprophetic in this opportune visit. The matter was not only in his ownthoughts, but in the air; it was the spontaneous revulsion of white menagainst the rule of an inferior race. These were the very men, above allothers in the town, to join him in a movement to change these degradingconditions.
General Belmont, the smaller of the two, was a man of good family, alawyer by profession, and took an active part in state and localpolitics. Aristocratic by birth and instinct, and a former owner ofslaves, his conception of the obligations and rights of his caste wasnevertheless somewhat lower than that of the narrower but more sincereCarteret. In serious affairs Carteret desired the approval of hisconscience, even if he had to trick that docile organ intoacquiescence. This was not difficult to do in politics, for he believedin the divine right of white men and gentlemen, as his ancestors hadbelieved in and died for the divine right of kings. General Belmont wasnot without a gentleman's distaste for meanness, but he permitted nofine scruples to stand in the way of success. He had once been minister,under a Democratic administration, to a small Central American state.Political rivals had characterized him as a tricky demagogue, which mayof course have been a libel. He had an amiable disposition, possessedthe gift of eloquence, and was a prime social favorite.
Captain George McBane had sprung from the poor-white class, to which,even more than to the slaves, the abolition of slavery had opened thedoor of opportunity. No longer overshadowed by a slaveholding caste,some of this class had rapidly pushed themselves forward. Some had madehonorable records. Others, foremost in negro-baiting and electionfrauds, had done the dirty work of politics, as their fathers had donethat of slavery, seeking their reward at first in minor offices,--forwhich men of gentler breeding did not care,--until their ambition beganto reach out for higher honors.
Of this class McBane--whose captaincy, by the way, was merely a politefiction--had been one of the most successful. He had held, untilrecently, as the reward of questionable political services, a contractwith the State for its convict labor, from which in a few years he hadrealized a fortune. But the methods which made his contract profitablehad not commended themselves to humane people, and charges of crueltyand worse had been preferred against him. He was rich enough to escapeserious consequences from the investigation which followed, but when theFusion ticket carried the state he lost his contract, and the system ofconvict labor was abolished. Since then McBane had devoted himself topolitics: he was ambitious for greater wealth, for office, and forsocial recognition. A man of few words and self-engrossed, he seldomspoke of his aspirations except where speech might favor them,preferring to seek his ends by secret "deals" and combinations ratherthan to challenge criticism and provoke rivalry by more open methods.
At sight, therefore, of these two men, with whose careers and charactershe was entirely familiar, Carteret felt sweep over his mind theconviction that now was the time and these the instruments with which toundertake the redemption of the state from the evil fate which hadbefallen it.
Jerry, the porter, who had gone downstairs to the counting-room to findtwo whole chairs, now entered with one in each hand. He set a chair forthe general, who gave him an amiable nod, to which Jerry responded witha bow and a scrape. Captain McBane made no acknowledgment, but fixedJerry so fiercely with his single eye that upon placing the chair Jerrymade his escape from the room as rapidly as possible.
"I don' like dat Cap'n McBane," he muttered, upon reaching the hall."Dey says he got dat eye knock' out tryin' ter whip a cullud 'oman, whenhe wuz a boy, an' dat he ain' never had no use fer niggerssence,--'cep'n' fer what he could make outen 'em wid his convic' laborcontrac's. His daddy wuz a' overseer befo' 'im, an' it come nachul ferhim ter be a nigger-driver. I don' want dat one eye er his'n restin' onme no longer 'n I kin he'p, an' I don' know how I'm gwine ter like disjob ef he's gwine ter be comin' roun' here. He ain' nothin' but po'w'ite trash nohow; but Lawd! Lawd! look at de money he's got,--livin'at de hotel, wearin' di'mon's, an' colloguin' wid de bes' quality er distown! 'Pears ter me de bottom rail is gittin' mighty close ter de top.Well, I s'pose it all comes f'm bein' w'ite. I wush ter Gawd I wuzw'ite!"
After this fervent aspiration, having nothing else to do for the timebeing, except to remain within call, and having caught a few words ofthe conversation as he went in with the chairs, Jerry, who possessed acertain amount of curiosity, placed close to the wall the broken stoolupon which he sat while waiting in the hall, and applied his ear to ahole in the plastering of the hallway. There was a similar defect in theinner wall, between the same two pieces of studding, and while thisinner opening was not exactly opposite the outer, Jerry was enabled,through the two, to catch in a more or less fragmentary way what wasgoing on within.
He could hear the major, now and then, use the word "negro," andMcBane's deep voice was quite audible when he referred, it seemed toJerry with alarming frequency, to "the damned niggers," while thegeneral's suave tones now and then pronounced the word "niggro,"--a sortof compromise between ethnology and the vernacular. That the gentlemenwere talking politics seemed quite likely, for gentlemen generallytalked politics when they met at the Chronicle office. Jerry could hearthe words "vote," "franchise," "eliminate," "constitution," and otherexpressions which marked the general tenor of the talk, though he couldnot follow it all,--partly because he could not hear everythingdistinctly, and partly because of certain limitations which nature hadplaced in the way of Jerry's understanding anything very difficult orabstruse.
He had gathered enough, however, to realize, in a vague way, thatsomething serious was on foot, involving his own race, when a bellsounded over his head, at which he sprang up hastily and entered theroom where the gentlemen were talking.
"Jerry," said the major, "wait on Captain McBane."
"Yas, suh," responded Jerry, turning toward the captain, whose eye hecarefully avoided meeting directly.
"Take that half a dollar, boy," ordered McBane, "an' go 'cross thestreet to Mr. Sykes's, and tell him to send me three whiskies. Bringback the change, and make has'e."
The captain tossed the half dollar at Jerry, who, looking to one side,of course missed it. He picked the money up, however, and backed out ofthe room. Jerry did not like Captain McBane, to begin with, and it wasclear that the captain was no gentleman, or he would not have thrown themoney at him. Considering the source, Jerry might have overlooked thisdiscourtesy had it not been coupled with the remark about the change,which seemed to him in very poor taste.
Returning in a few minutes with three glasses on a tray, he passed themround, handed Captain McBane his change, and retired to the hall.
"Gentlemen," exclaimed the captain, lifting his glass, "I propose atoast: 'No nigger domination.'"
"Amen!" said the others, and three glasses were solemnly drained.
"Major," observed the general, smacking his lips, "_I_ should like touse Jerry for a moment, if you will permit me."
Jerry appeared promptly at the sound of the bell. He had remainedconveniently near,--calls of this sort were apt to come in sequence.
"Jerry," said the general, handing Jerry half a dollar, "go over to Mr.Brown's,--I get my liquor there,--and tell them to send me three glassesof my special mixture. And, Jerry,--you may keep the change!"
"Thank y', gin'l, thank y', marster," replied Jerry, with unctuousgratitude, bending almost double as he backed out of the room.
"Dat's a gent'eman, a rale ole-time gent'eman," he said to himself whenhe had closed the door. "But dere's somethin' gwine on in dere,--deresho' is! 'No nigger damnation!' Dat soun's all right,--I'm sho' dereain' no nigger I knows w'at wants damnation, do' dere's lots of 'em w'atdeserves it; but ef dat one-eyed Cap'n McBane got anything ter do widit, w'atever it is, it don' mean no good fer de niggers,--damnation'dbe better fer 'em dan dat Cap'n
McBane! He looks at a nigger lack hecould jes' eat 'im alive."
"This mixture, gentlemen," observed the general when Jerry had returnedwith the glasses, "was originally compounded by no less a person thanthe great John C. Calhoun himself, who confided the recipe to my fatherover the convivial board. In this nectar of the gods, gentlemen, I drinkwith you to 'White Supremacy!'"
"White Supremacy everywhere!" added McBane with fervor.
"Now and forever!" concluded Carteret solemnly.
When the visitors, half an hour later, had taken their departure,Carteret, inspired by the theme, and in less degree by the famousmixture of the immortal Calhoun, turned to his desk and finished, at awhite heat, his famous editorial in which he sounded the tocsin of a newcrusade.
At noon, when the editor, having laid down his pen, was leaving theoffice, he passed Jerry in the hall without a word or a nod. The majorwore a rapt look, which Jerry observed with a vague uneasiness.
"He looks jes' lack he wuz walkin' in his sleep," muttered Jerryuneasily. "Dere's somethin' up, sho 's you bawn! 'No nigger damnation!'Anybody'd 'low dey wuz all gwine ter heaven; but I knows better! W'en apassel er w'ite folks gits ter talkin' 'bout de niggers lack dem inyander, it's mo' lackly dey're gwine ter ketch somethin' e'se danheaven! I got ter keep my eyes open an' keep up wid w'at's happenin'. Efdere's gwine ter be anudder flood 'roun' here, I wants ter git in deark wid de w'ite folks,--I may haf ter be anudder Ham, an' sta't decullud race all over ag'in."
The Marrow of Tradition Page 3
