XXXII
THE STORM BREAKS
The Wellington riot began at three o'clock in the afternoon of a day asfair as was ever selected for a deed of darkness. The sky was clear,except for a few light clouds that floated, white and feathery, high inair, like distant islands in a sapphire sea. A salt-laden breeze fromthe ocean a few miles away lent a crisp sparkle to the air.
At three o'clock sharp the streets were filled, as if by magic, witharmed white men. The negroes, going about, had noted, with uneasycuriosity, that the stores and places of business, many of which closedat noon, were unduly late in opening for the afternoon, though no onesuspected the reason for the delay; but at three o'clock every passingcolored man was ordered, by the first white man he met, to throw up hishands. If he complied, he was searched, more or less roughly, forfirearms, and then warned to get off the street. When he met anothergroup of white men the scene was repeated. The man thus summarily heldup seldom encountered more than two groups before disappearing acrosslots to his own home or some convenient hiding-place. If he resisted anydemand of those who halted him--But the records of the day arehistorical; they may be found in the newspapers of the following date,but they are more firmly engraved upon the hearts and memories of thepeople of Wellington. For many months there were negro families in thetown whose children screamed with fear and ran to their mothers forprotection at the mere sight of a white man.
Dr. Miller had received a call, about one o'clock, to attend a case atthe house of a well-to-do colored farmer, who lived some three or fourmiles from the town, upon the very road, by the way, along which Millerhad driven so furiously a few weeks before, in the few hours thatintervened before Sandy Campbell would probably have been burned at thestake. The drive to his patient's home, the necessary inquiries, thefilling of the prescription from his own medicine-case, which he carriedalong with him, the little friendly conversation about the weather andthe crops, and, the farmer being an intelligent and thinking man, theinevitable subject of the future of their race,--these, added to thereturn journey, occupied at least two hours of Miller's time.
As he neared the town on his way back, he saw ahead of him half a dozenmen and women approaching, with fear written in their faces, in everydegree from apprehension to terror. Women were weeping and childrencrying, and all were going as fast as seemingly lay in their power,looking behind now and then as if pursued by some deadly enemy. At sightof Miller's buggy they made a dash for cover, disappearing, like a coveyof frightened partridges, in the underbrush along the road.
Miller pulled up his horse and looked after them in startled wonder.
"What on earth can be the matter?" he muttered, struck with a vaguefeeling of alarm. A psychologist, seeking to trace the effects ofslavery upon the human mind, might find in the South many a curiousillustration of this curse, abiding long after the actual physicalbondage had terminated. In the olden time the white South labored underthe constant fear of negro insurrections. Knowing that they themselves,if in the negroes' place, would have risen in the effort to throw offthe yoke, all their reiterated theories of negro subordination andinferiority could not remove that lurking fear, founded upon the obscureconsciousness that the slaves ought to have risen. Conscience, it hasbeen said, makes cowards of us all. There was never, on the continent ofAmerica, a successful slave revolt, nor one which lasted more than a fewhours, or resulted in the loss of more than a few white lives; yet neverwas the planter quite free from the fear that there might be one.
On the other hand, the slave had before his eyes always the fear of themaster. There were good men, according to their lights,--according totheir training and environment,--among the Southern slaveholders, whotreated their slaves kindly, as slaves, from principle, because theyrecognized the claims of humanity, even under the dark skin of a humanchattel. There was many a one who protected or pampered his negroes, asthe case might be, just as a man fondles his dog,--because they werehis; they were a part of his estate, an integral part of the entity ofproperty and person which made up the aristocrat; but with all thiskindness, there was always present, in the consciousness of the lowestslave, the knowledge that he was in his master's power, and that hecould make no effectual protest against the abuse of that authority.There was also the knowledge, among those who could think at all, thatthe best of masters was himself a slave to a system, which hampered hismovements but scarcely less than those of his bondmen.
When, therefore, Miller saw these men and women scampering into thebushes, he divined, with this slumbering race consciousness which yearsof culture had not obliterated, that there was some race trouble onfoot. His intuition did not long remain unsupported. A black head wascautiously protruded from the shrubbery, and a black voice--if such adescription be allowable--addressed him:--
"Is dat you, Doctuh Miller?"
"Yes. Who are you, and what's the trouble?"
"What's de trouble, suh? Why, all hell's broke loose in town yonduh. Dew'ite folks is riz 'gins' de niggers, an' say dey're gwine ter killeve'y nigger dey kin lay han's on."
Miller's heart leaped to his throat, as he thought of his wife andchild. This story was preposterous; it could not be true, and yet theremust be something in it. He tried to question his informant, but the manwas so overcome with excitement and fear that Miller saw clearly that hemust go farther for information. He had read in the Morning Chronicle, afew days before, the obnoxious editorial quoted from the Afro-AmericanBanner, and had noted the comment upon it by the white editor. He hadfelt, as at the time of its first publication, that the editorial wasill-advised. It could do no good, and was calculated to arouse theanimosity of those whose friendship, whose tolerance, at least, wasnecessary and almost indispensable to the colored people. They wereliving, at the best, in a sort of armed neutrality with the whites; sucha publication, however serviceable elsewhere, could have no othereffect in Wellington than to endanger this truce and defeat the hope ofa possible future friendship. The right of free speech entitled Barberto publish it; a larger measure of common-sense would have made himwithhold it. Whether it was the republication of this article that hadstirred up anew the sleeping dogs of race prejudice and whetted theirthirst for blood, he could not yet tell; but at any rate, there wasmischief on foot.
"Fer God's sake, doctuh, don' go no closeter ter dat town," pleaded hisinformant, "er you'll be killt sho'. Come on wid us, suh, an' tek keerer yo'se'f. We're gwine ter hide in de swamps till dis thing is over!"
"God, man!" exclaimed Miller, urging his horse forward, "my wife andchild are in the town!"
Fortunately, he reflected, there were no patients confined in thehospital,--if there should be anything in this preposterous story. Toone unfamiliar with Southern life, it might have seemed impossible thatthese good Christian people, who thronged the churches on Sunday, andwept over the sufferings of the lowly Nazarene, and sent missionaries tothe heathen, could be hungering and thirsting for the blood of theirfellow men; but Miller cherished no such delusion. He knew the historyof his country; he had the threatened lynching of Sandy Campbell vividlyin mind; and he was fully persuaded that to race prejudice, once roused,any horror was possible. That women or children would be molested of setpurpose he did not believe, but that they might suffer by accident wasmore than likely.
As he neared the town, dashing forward at the top of his horse's speed,he heard his voice called in a loud and agitated tone, and, glancingaround him, saw a familiar form standing by the roadside, gesticulatingvehemently.
He drew up the horse with a suddenness that threw the faithful andobedient animal back upon its haunches. The colored lawyer, Watson, cameup to the buggy. That he was laboring under great and unusual excitementwas quite apparent from his pale face and frightened air.
"What's the matter, Watson?" demanded Miller, hoping now to obtain somereliable information.
"Matter!" exclaimed the other. "Everything's the matter! The whitepeople are up in arms. They have disarmed the colored people, killinghalf a dozen in the process, and
wounding as many more. They have forcedthe mayor and aldermen to resign, have formed a provisional citygovernment _a la Francaise_, and have ordered me and half a dozen otherfellows to leave town in forty-eight hours, under pain of sudden death.As they seem to mean it, I shall not stay so long. Fortunately, my wifeand children are away. I knew you were out here, however, and I thoughtI'd come out and wait for you, so that we might talk the matter over. Idon't imagine they mean you any harm, personally, because you tread onnobody's toes; but you're too valuable a man for the race to lose, so Ithought I'd give you warning. I shall want to sell you my property,too, at a bargain. For I'm worth too much to my family to dream of everattempting to live here again."
"Have you seen anything of my wife and child?" asked Miller, intent uponthe danger to which they might be exposed.
"No; I didn't go to the house. I inquired at the drugstore and foundout where you had gone. You needn't fear for them,--it is not a war onwomen and children."
"War of any kind is always hardest on the women and children," returnedMiller; "I must hurry on and see that mine are safe."
"They'll not carry the war so far into Africa as that," returnedWatson; "but I never saw anything like it. Yesterday I had a hundredwhite friends in the town, or thought I had,--men who spoke pleasantlyto me on the street, and sometimes gave me their hands to shake. Not oneof them said to me today: 'Watson, stay at home this afternoon.' I mighthave been killed, like any one of half a dozen others who have bit thedust, for any word that one of my 'friends' had said to warn me. Whenthe race cry is started in this neck of the woods, friendship, religion,humanity, reason, all shrivel up like dry leaves in a raging furnace."
The buggy, into which Watson had climbed, was meanwhile rapidly nearingthe town.
"I think I'll leave you here, Miller," said Watson, as they approachedthe outskirts, "and make my way home by a roundabout path, as I shouldlike to get there unmolested. Home!--a beautiful word that, isn't it,for an exiled wanderer? It might not be well, either, for us to be seentogether. If you put the hood of your buggy down, and sit well back inthe shadow, you may be able to reach home without interruption; butavoid the main streets. I'll see you again this evening, if we're bothalive, and I can reach you; for my time is short. A committee are tocall in the morning to escort me to the train. I am to be dismissed fromthe community with public honors." Watson was climbing down from thebuggy, when a small party of men were seen approaching, and big JoshGreen, followed by several other resolute-looking colored men, came upand addressed them.
"Dr. Miller," cried Green, "Mr. Watson,--we're lookin' fer a leader. Dew'ite folks are killin' de niggers, an' we ain' gwine ter stan' up an'be shot down like dogs. We're gwine ter defen' ou' lives, an' we ain'gwine ter run away f'm no place where we 'we got a right ter be; an' woebe ter de w'ite man w'at lays ban's on us! Dere's two niggers in distown ter eve'y w'ite man, an' ef we 'we got ter be killt, we'll takesome w'ite folks 'long wid us, ez sho' ez dere's a God in heaven,--ez Is'pose dere is, dough He mus' be 'sleep, er busy somewhar e'se ter-day.Will you-all come an' lead us?"
"Gentlemen," said Watson, "what is the use? The negroes will not backyou up. They haven't the arms, nor the moral courage, nor theleadership."
"We'll git de arms, an' we'll git de courage, ef you'll come an' leadus! We wants leaders,--dat's w'y we come ter you!"
"What's the use?" returned Watson despairingly. "The odds are too heavy.I've been ordered out of town; if I stayed, I'd be shot on sight,unless I had a body-guard around me."
"We'll be yo' body-guard!" shouted half a dozen voices.
"And when my body-guard was shot, what then? I have a wife and children.It is my duty to live for them. If I died, I should get no glory and noreward, and my family would be reduced to beggary,--to which they'llsoon be near enough as it is. This affair will blow over in a day ortwo. The white people will be ashamed of themselves to-morrow, andapprehensive of the consequences for some time to come. Keep quiet,boys, and trust in God. You won't gain anything by resistance."
"'God he'ps dem dat he'ps demselves,'" returned Josh stoutly. "Ef Mr.Watson won't lead us, will you, Dr. Miller?" said the spokesman, turningto the doctor.
For Miller it was an agonizing moment. He was no coward, morally orphysically. Every manly instinct urged him to go forward and take up thecause of these leaderless people, and, if need be, to defend their livesand their rights with his own,--but to what end?
"Listen, men," he said. "We would only be throwing our lives away.Suppose we made a determined stand and won a temporary victory. Bymorning every train, every boat, every road leading into Wellington,would be crowded with white men,--as they probably will be anyway,--with arms in their hands, curses on their lips, and vengeance intheir hearts. In the minds of those who make and administer the laws, wehave no standing in the court of conscience. They would kill us in thefight, or they would hang us afterwards,--one way or another, we shouldbe doomed. I should like to lead you; I should like to arm every coloredman in this town, and have them stand firmly in line, not for attack,but for defense; but if I attempted it, and they should stand by me,which is questionable,--for I have met them fleeing from the town,--mylife would pay the forfeit. Alive, I may be of some use to you, and youare welcome to my life in that way,--I am giving it freely. Dead, Ishould be a mere lump of carrion. Who remembers even the names of thosewho have been done to death in the Southern States for the past twentyyears?"
"I 'members de name er one of 'em," said Josh, "an' I 'members de nameer de man dat killt 'im, an' I s'pec' his time is mighty nigh come."
"My advice is not heroic, but I think it is wise. In this riot we areplaced as we should be in a war: we have no territory, no base ofsupplies, no organization, no outside sympathy,--we stand in theposition of a race, in a case like this, without money and withoutfriends. Our time will come,--the time when we can command respect forour rights; but it is not yet in sight. Give it up, boys, and wait. Goodmay come of this, after all."
Several of the men wavered, and looked irresolute.
"I reckon that's all so, doctuh," returned Josh, "an', de way you putit, I don' blame you ner Mr. Watson; but all dem reasons ain' got noweight wid me. I'm gwine in dat town, an' ef any w'ite man 'sturbs me,dere'll be trouble,--dere'll be double trouble,--I feels it in mybones!"
"Remember your old mother, Josh," said Miller.
"Yas, sub, I'll 'member her; dat's all I kin do now. I don' need terwait fer her no mo', fer she died dis mo'nin'. I'd lack ter see herburied, suh, but I may not have de chance. Ef I gits killt, will you dome a favor?"
"Yes, Josh; what is it?"
"Ef I should git laid out in dis commotion dat's gwine on, will youcollec' my wages f'm yo' brother, and see dat de ole 'oman is put awayright?"
"Yes, of course."
"Wid a nice coffin, an' a nice fune'al, an' a head-bo'd an' afoot-bo'd?"
"Yes."
"All right, suh! Ef I don' live ter do it, I'll know it'll be 'tendedter right. Now we're gwine out ter de cotton compress, an' git a lot ercolored men tergether, an' ef de w'ite folks 'sturbs me, I shouldn't bes'prise' ef dere'd be a mix-up;--an' ef dere is, me an _one_ w'ite man'll stan' befo' de jedgment th'one er God dis day; an' it won't be mew'at'll be 'feared er de jedgment. Come along, boys! Dese gentlemen mayhave somethin' ter live fer; but ez fer my pa't, I'd ruther be a deadnigger any day dan a live dog!"
The Marrow of Tradition Page 32
