[Illustration]
Out of the North the train thundered, and we woke to see the crimson
soil of Georgia stretching away bare and monotonous right and left.
Here and there lay straggling, unlovely villages, and lean men loafed
leisurely at the depots; then again came the stretch of pines and clay.
Yet we did not nod, nor weary of the scene; for this is historic
ground. Right across our track, three hundred and sixty years ago,
wandered the cavalcade of Hernando de Soto, looking for gold and the
Great Sea; and he and his foot-sore captives disappeared yonder in the
grim forests to the west. Here sits Atlanta, the city of a hundred
hills, with something Western, something Southern, and something quite
its own, in its busy life. Just this side Atlanta is the land of the
Cherokees and to the southwest, not far from where Sam Hose was
crucified, you may stand on a spot which is to-day the centre of the
Negro problem,—the centre of those nine million men who are America’s
dark heritage from slavery and the slave-trade.
Not only is Georgia thus the geographical focus of our Negro
population, but in many other respects, both now and yesterday, the
Negro problems have seemed to be centered in this State. No other State
in the Union can count a million Negroes among its citizens,—a
population as large as the slave population of the whole Union in 1800;
no other State fought so long and strenuously to gather this host of
Africans. Oglethorpe thought slavery against law and gospel; but the
circumstances which gave Georgia its first inhabitants were not
calculated to furnish citizens over-nice in their ideas about rum and
slaves. Despite the prohibitions of the trustees, these Georgians, like
some of their descendants, proceeded to take the law into their own
hands; and so pliant were the judges, and so flagrant the smuggling,
and so earnest were the prayers of Whitefield, that by the middle of
the eighteenth century all restrictions were swept away, and the
slave-trade went merrily on for fifty years and more.
Down in Darien, where the Delegal riots took place some summers ago,
there used to come a strong protest against slavery from the Scotch
Highlanders; and the Moravians of Ebenezer did not like the system. But
not till the Haytian Terror of Toussaint was the trade in men even
checked; while the national statute of 1808 did not suffice to stop it.
How the Africans poured in!—fifty thousand between 1790 and 1810, and
then, from Virginia and from smugglers, two thousand a year for many
years more. So the thirty thousand Negroes of Georgia in 1790 doubled
in a decade,—were over a hundred thousand in 1810, had reached two
hundred thousand in 1820, and half a million at the time of the war.
Thus like a snake the black population writhed upward.
But we must hasten on our journey. This that we pass as we near Atlanta
is the ancient land of the Cherokees,—that brave Indian nation which
strove so long for its fatherland, until Fate and the United States
Government drove them beyond the Mississippi. If you wish to ride with
me you must come into the “Jim Crow Car.” There will be no
objection,—already four other white men, and a little white girl with
her nurse, are in there. Usually the races are mixed in there; but the
white coach is all white. Of course this car is not so good as the
other, but it is fairly clean and comfortable. The discomfort lies
chiefly in the hearts of those four black men yonder—and in mine.
We rumble south in quite a business-like way. The bare red clay and
pines of Northern Georgia begin to disappear, and in their place
appears a rich rolling land, luxuriant, and here and there well tilled.
This is the land of the Creek Indians; and a hard time the Georgians
had to seize it. The towns grow more frequent and more interesting, and
brand-new cotton mills rise on every side. Below Macon the world grows
darker; for now we approach the Black Belt,—that strange land of
shadows, at which even slaves paled in the past, and whence come now
only faint and half-intelligible murmurs to the world beyond. The “Jim
Crow Car” grows larger and a shade better; three rough field-hands and
two or three white loafers accompany us, and the newsboy still spreads
his wares at one end. The sun is setting, but we can see the great
cotton country as we enter it,—the soil now dark and fertile, now thin
and gray, with fruit-trees and dilapidated buildings,—all the way to
Albany.
At Albany, in the heart of the Black Belt, we stop. Two hundred miles
south of Atlanta, two hundred miles west of the Atlantic, and one
hundred miles north of the Great Gulf lies Dougherty County, with ten
thousand Negroes and two thousand whites. The Flint River winds down
from Andersonville, and, turning suddenly at Albany, the county-seat,
hurries on to join the Chattahoochee and the sea. Andrew Jackson knew
the Flint well, and marched across it once to avenge the Indian
Massacre at Fort Mims. That was in 1814, not long before the battle of
New Orleans; and by the Creek treaty that followed this campaign, all
Dougherty County, and much other rich land, was ceded to Georgia.
Still, settlers fought shy of this land, for the Indians were all
about, and they were unpleasant neighbors in those days. The panic of
1837, which Jackson bequeathed to Van Buren, turned the planters from
the impoverished lands of Virginia, the Carolinas, and east Georgia,
toward the West. The Indians were removed to Indian Territory, and
settlers poured into these coveted lands to retrieve their broken
fortunes. For a radius of a hundred miles about Albany, stretched a
great fertile land, luxuriant with forests of pine, oak, ash, hickory,
and poplar; hot with the sun and damp with the rich black swamp-land;
and here the corner-stone of the Cotton Kingdom was laid.
Albany is to-day a wide-streeted, placid, Southern town, with a broad
sweep of stores and saloons, and flanking rows of homes,—whites usually
to the north, and blacks to the south. Six days in the week the town
looks decidedly too small for itself, and takes frequent and prolonged
naps. But on Saturday suddenly the whole county disgorges itself upon
the place, and a perfect flood of black peasantry pours through the
streets, fills the stores, blocks the sidewalks, chokes the
thoroughfares, and takes full possession of the town. They are black,
sturdy, uncouth country folk, good-natured and simple, talkative to a
degree, and yet far more silent and brooding than the crowds of the
Rhine-pfalz, or Naples, or Cracow. They drink considerable quantities
of whiskey, but do not get very drunk; they talk and laugh loudly at
times, but seldom quarrel or fight. They walk up and down the streets,
meet and gossip with friends, stare at the shop windows, buy coffee,
cheap candy, and clothes, and at dusk drive home—happy? well no, not
exactly happy, but much happier than as though they had not come.
Thus Albany is a real capital,—a typical Southern county town, the
centre of the life of ten thousand souls; their point of contact with
the outer world, their centre of news and gossip, their market for
buying and selling, borrowing and lending, their fountain of justice
and law. Once upon a time we knew country life so well and city life so
little, that we illustrated city life as that of a closely crowded
country district. Now the world has well-nigh forgotten what the
country is, and we must imagine a little city of black people scattered
far and wide over three hundred lonesome square miles of land, without
train or trolley, in the midst of cotton and corn, and wide patches of
sand and gloomy soil.
It gets pretty hot in Southern Georgia in July,—a sort of dull,
determined heat that seems quite independent of the sun; so it took us
some days to muster courage enough to leave the porch and venture out
on the long country roads, that we might see this unknown world.
Finally we started. It was about ten in the morning, bright with a
faint breeze, and we jogged leisurely southward in the valley of the
Flint. We passed the scattered box-like cabins of the brickyard hands,
and the long tenement-row facetiously called “The Ark,” and were soon
in the open country, and on the confines of the great plantations of
other days. There is the “Joe Fields place”; a rough old fellow was he,
and had killed many a “nigger” in his day. Twelve miles his plantation
used to run,—a regular barony. It is nearly all gone now; only
straggling bits belong to the family, and the rest has passed to Jews
and Negroes. Even the bits which are left are heavily mortgaged, and,
like the rest of the land, tilled by tenants. Here is one of them
now,—a tall brown man, a hard worker and a hard drinker, illiterate,
but versed in farmlore, as his nodding crops declare. This
distressingly new board house is his, and he has just moved out of
yonder moss-grown cabin with its one square room.
From the curtains in Benton’s house, down the road, a dark comely face
is staring at the strangers; for passing carriages are not every-day
occurrences here. Benton is an intelligent yellow man with a good-sized
family, and manages a plantation blasted by the war and now the broken
staff of the widow. He might be well-to-do, they say; but he carouses
too much in Albany. And the half-desolate spirit of neglect born of the
very soil seems to have settled on these acres. In times past there
were cotton-gins and machinery here; but they have rotted away.
The whole land seems forlorn and forsaken. Here are the remnants of the
vast plantations of the Sheldons, the Pellots, and the Rensons; but the
souls of them are passed. The houses lie in half ruin, or have wholly
disappeared; the fences have flown, and the families are wandering in
the world. Strange vicissitudes have met these whilom masters. Yonder
stretch the wide acres of Bildad Reasor; he died in war-time, but the
upstart overseer hastened to wed the widow. Then he went, and his
neighbors too, and now only the black tenant remains; but the
shadow-hand of the master’s grand-nephew or cousin or creditor
stretches out of the gray distance to collect the rack-rent
remorselessly, and so the land is uncared-for and poor. Only black
tenants can stand such a system, and they only because they must. Ten
miles we have ridden to-day and have seen no white face.
A resistless feeling of depression falls slowly upon us, despite the
gaudy sunshine and the green cottonfields. This, then, is the Cotton
Kingdom,—the shadow of a marvellous dream. And where is the King?
Perhaps this is he,—the sweating ploughman, tilling his eighty acres
with two lean mules, and fighting a hard battle with debt. So we sit
musing, until, as we turn a corner on the sandy road, there comes a
fairer scene suddenly in view,—a neat cottage snugly ensconced by the
road, and near it a little store. A tall bronzed man rises from the
porch as we hail him, and comes out to our carriage. He is six feet in
height, with a sober face that smiles gravely. He walks too straight to
be a tenant,—yes, he owns two hundred and forty acres. “The land is run
down since the boom-days of eighteen hundred and fifty,” he explains,
and cotton is low. Three black tenants live on his place, and in his
little store he keeps a small stock of tobacco, snuff, soap, and soda,
for the neighborhood. Here is his gin-house with new machinery just
installed. Three hundred bales of cotton went through it last year. Two
children he has sent away to school. Yes, he says sadly, he is getting
on, but cotton is down to four cents; I know how Debt sits staring at
him.
Wherever the King may be, the parks and palaces of the Cotton Kingdom
have not wholly disappeared. We plunge even now into great groves of
oak and towering pine, with an undergrowth of myrtle and shrubbery.
This was the “home-house” of the Thompsons,—slave-barons who drove
their coach and four in the merry past. All is silence now, and ashes,
and tangled weeds. The owner put his whole fortune into the rising
cotton industry of the fifties, and with the falling prices of the
eighties he packed up and stole away. Yonder is another grove, with
unkempt lawn, great magnolias, and grass-grown paths. The Big House
stands in half-ruin, its great front door staring blankly at the
street, and the back part grotesquely restored for its black tenant. A
shabby, well-built Negro he is, unlucky and irresolute. He digs hard to
pay rent to the white girl who owns the remnant of the place. She
married a policeman, and lives in Savannah.
Now and again we come to churches. Here is one now,—Shepherd’s, they
call it,—a great whitewashed barn of a thing, perched on stilts of
stone, and looking for all the world as though it were just resting
here a moment and might be expected to waddle off down the road at
almost any time. And yet it is the centre of a hundred cabin homes; and
sometimes, of a Sunday, five hundred persons from far and near gather
here and talk and eat and sing. There is a schoolhouse near,—a very
airy, empty shed; but even this is an improvement, for usually the
school is held in the church. The churches vary from log-huts to those
like Shepherd’s, and the schools from nothing to this little house that
sits demurely on the county line. It is a tiny plank-house, perhaps ten
by twenty, and has within a double row of rough unplaned benches,
resting mostly on legs, sometimes on boxes. Opposite the door is a
square home-made desk. In one corner are the ruins of a stove, and in
the other a dim blackboard. It is the cheerfulest schoolhouse I have
seen in Dougherty, save in town. Back of the schoolhouse is a
lodgehouse two stories high and not quite finished. Societies meet
there,—societies “to care for the sick and bury the dead”; and these
societies grow and flourish.
We had come to the boundaries of Dougherty, and were about to turn west
along the county-line, when all these sights were pointed out to us by
a kindly old man, black, white-haired, and seventy. Forty-five years he
had lived here, and now supports himself and his old wife by the help
of the steer tethered yonder and the charity of his black neighbors. He
shows us the farm of the Hills just across the county line in Baker,—a
widow and two strapping sons, who raised ten bales (one need not add
“cotton” down here) last year. There are fences and pigs and cows, and
the soft-voiced, velvet-skinned young Memnon, who sauntered
half-bashfully over to greet the strangers, is proud of his home. We
turn now to the west along the county line. Great dismantled trunks of
pines tower above the green cottonfields, cracking their naked gnarled
fingers toward the border of living forest beyond. There is little
beauty in this region, only a sort of crude abandon that suggests
power,—a naked grandeur, as it were. The houses are bare and straight;
there are no hammocks or easy-chairs, and few flowers. So when, as here
at Rawdon’s, one sees a vine clinging to a little porch, and home-like
windows peeping over the fences, one takes a long breath. I think I
never before quite realized the place of the Fence in civilization.
This is the Land of the Unfenced, where crouch on either hand scores of
ugly one-room cabins, cheerless and dirty. Here lies the Negro problem
in its naked dirt and penury. And here are no fences. But now and then
the crisscross rails or straight palings break into view, and then we
know a touch of culture is near. Of course Harrison Gohagen,—a quiet
yellow man, young, smooth-faced, and diligent,—of course he is lord of
some hundred acres, and we expect to see a vision of well-kept rooms
and fat beds and laughing children. For has he not fine fences? And
those over yonder, why should they build fences on the rack-rented
land? It will only increase their rent.
On we wind, through sand and pines and glimpses of old plantations,
till there creeps into sight a cluster of buildings,—wood and brick,
mills and houses, and scattered cabins. It seemed quite a village. As
it came nearer and nearer, however, the aspect changed: the buildings
were rotten, the bricks were falling out, the mills were silent, and
the store was closed. Only in the cabins appeared now and then a bit of
lazy life. I could imagine the place under some weird spell, and was
half-minded to search out the princess. An old ragged black man,
honest, simple, and improvident, told us the tale. The Wizard of the
North—the Capitalist—had rushed down in the seventies to woo this coy
dark soil. He bought a square mile or more, and for a time the
field-hands sang, the gins groaned, and the mills buzzed. Then came a
change. The agent’s son embezzled the funds and ran off with them. Then
the agent himself disappeared. Finally the new agent stole even the
books, and the company in wrath closed its business and its houses,
refused to sell, and let houses and furniture and machinery rust and
rot. So the Waters-Loring plantation was stilled by the spell of
dishonesty, and stands like some gaunt rebuke to a scarred land.
Somehow that plantation ended our day’s journey; for I could not shake
off the influence of that silent scene. Back toward town we glided,
past the straight and thread-like pines, past a dark tree-dotted pond
where the air was heavy with a dead sweet perfume. White slender-legged
curlews flitted by us, and the garnet blooms of the cotton looked gay
against the green and purple stalks. A peasant girl was hoeing in the
field, white-turbaned and black-limbed. All this we saw, but the spell
still lay upon us.
How curious a land is this,—how full of untold story, of tragedy and
laughter, and the rich legacy of human life; shadowed with a tragic
past, and big with future promise! This is the Black Belt of Georgia.
Dougherty County is the west end of the Black Belt, and men once called
it the Egypt of the Confederacy. It is full of historic interest. First
there is the Swamp, to the west, where the Chickasawhatchee flows
sullenly southward. The shadow of an old plantation lies at its edge,
forlorn and dark. Then comes the pool; pendent gray moss and brackish
waters appear, and forests filled with wildfowl. In one place the wood
is on fire, smouldering in dull red anger; but nobody minds. Then the
swamp grows beautiful; a raised road, built by chained Negro convicts,
dips down into it, and forms a way walled and almost covered in living
green. Spreading trees spring from a prodigal luxuriance of
undergrowth; great dark green shadows fade into the black background,
until all is one mass of tangled semi-tropical foliage, marvellous in
its weird savage splendor. Once we crossed a black silent stream, where
the sad trees and writhing creepers, all glinting fiery yellow and
green, seemed like some vast cathedral,—some green Milan builded of
wildwood. And as I crossed, I seemed to see again that fierce tragedy
of seventy years ago. Osceola, the Indian-Negro chieftain, had risen in
the swamps of Florida, vowing vengeance. His war-cry reached the red
Creeks of Dougherty, and their war-cry rang from the Chattahoochee to
the sea. Men and women and children fled and fell before them as they
swept into Dougherty. In yonder shadows a dark and hideously painted
warrior glided stealthily on,—another and another, until three hundred
had crept into the treacherous swamp. Then the false slime closing
about them called the white men from the east. Waist-deep, they fought
beneath the tall trees, until the war-cry was hushed and the Indians
glided back into the west. Small wonder the wood is red.
Then came the black slaves. Day after day the clank of chained feet
marching from Virginia and Carolina to Georgia was heard in these rich
swamp lands. Day after day the songs of the callous, the wail of the
motherless, and the muttered curses of the wretched echoed from the
Flint to the Chickasawhatchee, until by 1860 there had risen in West
Dougherty perhaps the richest slave kingdom the modern world ever knew.
A hundred and fifty barons commanded the labor of nearly six thousand
Negroes, held sway over farms with ninety thousand acres tilled land,
valued even in times of cheap soil at three millions of dollars. Twenty
thousand bales of ginned cotton went yearly to England, New and Old;
and men that came there bankrupt made money and grew rich. In a single
decade the cotton output increased four-fold and the value of lands was
tripled. It was the heyday of the _nouveau riche_, and a life of
careless extravagance among the masters. Four and six bobtailed
thoroughbreds rolled their coaches to town; open hospitality and gay
entertainment were the rule. Parks and groves were laid out, rich with
flower and vine, and in the midst stood the low wide-halled “big
house,” with its porch and columns and great fireplaces.
And yet with all this there was something sordid, something forced,—a
certain feverish unrest and recklessness; for was not all this show and
tinsel built upon a groan? “This land was a little Hell,” said a
ragged, brown, and grave-faced man to me. We were seated near a
roadside blacksmith shop, and behind was the bare ruin of some master’s
home. “I’ve seen niggers drop dead in the furrow, but they were kicked
aside, and the plough never stopped. Down in the guard-house, there’s
where the blood ran.”
With such foundations a kingdom must in time sway and fall. The masters
moved to Macon and Augusta, and left only the irresponsible overseers
on the land. And the result is such ruin as this, the Lloyd
“home-place”:—great waving oaks, a spread of lawn, myrtles and
chestnuts, all ragged and wild; a solitary gate-post standing where
once was a castle entrance; an old rusty anvil lying amid rotting
bellows and wood in the ruins of a blacksmith shop; a wide rambling old
mansion, brown and dingy, filled now with the grandchildren of the
slaves who once waited on its tables; while the family of the master
has dwindled to two lone women, who live in Macon and feed hungrily off
the remnants of an earldom. So we ride on, past phantom gates and
falling homes,—past the once flourishing farms of the Smiths, the
Gandys, and the Lagores,—and find all dilapidated and half ruined, even
there where a solitary white woman, a relic of other days, sits alone
in state among miles of Negroes and rides to town in her ancient coach
each day.
This was indeed the Egypt of the Confederacy,—the rich granary whence
potatoes and corn and cotton poured out to the famished and ragged
Confederate troops as they battled for a cause lost long before 1861.
Sheltered and secure, it became the place of refuge for families,
wealth, and slaves. Yet even then the hard ruthless rape of the land
began to tell. The red-clay sub-soil already had begun to peer above
the loam. The harder the slaves were driven the more careless and fatal
was their farming. Then came the revolution of war and Emancipation,
the bewilderment of Reconstruction,—and now, what is the Egypt of the
Confederacy, and what meaning has it for the nation’s weal or woe?
It is a land of rapid contrasts and of curiously mingled hope and pain.
Here sits a pretty blue-eyed quadroon hiding her bare feet; she was
married only last week, and yonder in the field is her dark young
husband, hoeing to support her, at thirty cents a day without board.
Across the way is Gatesby, brown and tall, lord of two thousand acres
shrewdly won and held. There is a store conducted by his black son, a
blacksmith shop, and a ginnery. Five miles below here is a town owned
and controlled by one white New Englander. He owns almost a Rhode
Island county, with thousands of acres and hundreds of black laborers.
Their cabins look better than most, and the farm, with machinery and
fertilizers, is much more business-like than any in the county,
although the manager drives hard bargains in wages. When now we turn
and look five miles above, there on the edge of town are five houses of
prostitutes,—two of blacks and three of whites; and in one of the
houses of the whites a worthless black boy was harbored too openly two
years ago; so he was hanged for rape. And here, too, is the high
whitewashed fence of the “stockade,” as the county prison is called;
the white folks say it is ever full of black criminals,—the black folks
say that only colored boys are sent to jail, and they not because they
are guilty, but because the State needs criminals to eke out its income
by their forced labor.
The Jew is the heir of the slave baron in Dougherty; and as we ride
westward, by wide stretching cornfields and stubby orchards of peach
and pear, we see on all sides within the circle of dark forest a Land
of Canaan. Here and there are tales of projects for money-getting, born
in the swift days of Reconstruction,—“improvement” companies, wine
companies, mills and factories; most failed, and the Jew fell heir. It
is a beautiful land, this Dougherty, west of the Flint. The forests are
wonderful, the solemn pines have disappeared, and this is the “Oakey
Woods,” with its wealth of hickories, beeches, oaks and palmettos. But
a pall of debt hangs over the beautiful land; the merchants are in debt
to the wholesalers, the planters are in debt to the merchants, the
tenants owe the planters, and laborers bow and bend beneath the burden
of it all. Here and there a man has raised his head above these murky
waters. We passed one fenced stock-farm with grass and grazing cattle,
that looked very home-like after endless corn and cotton. Here and
there are black free-holders: there is the gaunt dull-black Jackson,
with his hundred acres. “I says, ‘Look up! If you don’t look up you
can’t get up,’” remarks Jackson, philosophically. And he’s gotten up.
Dark Carter’s neat barns would do credit to New England. His master
helped him to get a start, but when the black man died last fall the
master’s sons immediately laid claim to the estate. “And them white
folks will get it, too,” said my yellow gossip.
I turn from these well-tended acres with a comfortable feeling that the
Negro is rising. Even then, however, the fields, as we proceed, begin
to redden and the trees disappear. Rows of old cabins appear filled
with renters and laborers,—cheerless, bare, and dirty, for the most
part, although here and there the very age and decay makes the scene
picturesque. A young black fellow greets us. He is twenty-two, and just
married. Until last year he had good luck renting; then cotton fell,
and the sheriff seized and sold all he had. So he moved here, where the
rent is higher, the land poorer, and the owner inflexible; he rents a
forty-dollar mule for twenty dollars a year. Poor lad!—a slave at
twenty-two. This plantation, owned now by a foreigner, was a part of
the famous Bolton estate. After the war it was for many years worked by
gangs of Negro convicts,—and black convicts then were even more
plentiful than now; it was a way of making Negroes work, and the
question of guilt was a minor one. Hard tales of cruelty and
mistreatment of the chained freemen are told, but the county
authorities were deaf until the free-labor market was nearly ruined by
wholesale migration. Then they took the convicts from the plantations,
but not until one of the fairest regions of the “Oakey Woods” had been
ruined and ravished into a red waste, out of which only a Yankee or an
immigrant could squeeze more blood from debt-cursed tenants.
No wonder that Luke Black, slow, dull, and discouraged, shuffles to our
carriage and talks hopelessly. Why should he strive? Every year finds
him deeper in debt. How strange that Georgia, the world-heralded refuge
of poor debtors, should bind her own to sloth and misfortune as
ruthlessly as ever England did! The poor land groans with its
birth-pains, and brings forth scarcely a hundred pounds of cotton to
the acre, where fifty years ago it yielded eight times as much. Of his
meagre yield the tenant pays from a quarter to a third in rent, and
most of the rest in interest on food and supplies bought on credit.
Twenty years yonder sunken-cheeked, old black man has labored under
that system, and now, turned day-laborer, is supporting his wife and
boarding himself on his wages of a dollar and a half a week, received
only part of the year.
The Bolton convict farm formerly included the neighboring plantation.
Here it was that the convicts were lodged in the great log prison still
standing. A dismal place it still remains, with rows of ugly huts
filled with surly ignorant tenants. “What rent do you pay here?” I
inquired. “I don’t know,—what is it, Sam?” “All we make,” answered Sam.
It is a depressing place,—bare, unshaded, with no charm of past
association, only a memory of forced human toil,—now, then, and before
the war. They are not happy, these black men whom we meet throughout
this region. There is little of the joyous abandon and playfulness
which we are wont to associate with the plantation Negro. At best, the
natural good-nature is edged with complaint or has changed into
sullenness and gloom. And now and then it blazes forth in veiled but
hot anger. I remember one big red-eyed black whom we met by the
roadside. Forty-five years he had labored on this farm, beginning with
nothing, and still having nothing. To be sure, he had given four
children a common-school training, and perhaps if the new fence-law had
not allowed unfenced crops in West Dougherty he might have raised a
little stock and kept ahead. As it is, he is hopelessly in debt,
disappointed, and embittered. He stopped us to inquire after the black
boy in Albany, whom it was said a policeman had shot and killed for
loud talking on the sidewalk. And then he said slowly: “Let a white man
touch me, and he dies; I don’t boast this,—I don’t say it around loud,
or before the children,—but I mean it. I’ve seen them whip my father
and my old mother in them cotton-rows till the blood ran; by—” and we
passed on.
Now Sears, whom we met next lolling under the chubby oak-trees, was of
quite different fibre. Happy?—Well, yes; he laughed and flipped
pebbles, and thought the world was as it was. He had worked here twelve
years and has nothing but a mortgaged mule. Children? Yes, seven; but
they hadn’t been to school this year,—couldn’t afford books and
clothes, and couldn’t spare their work. There go part of them to the
fields now,—three big boys astride mules, and a strapping girl with
bare brown legs. Careless ignorance and laziness here, fierce hate and
vindictiveness there;—these are the extremes of the Negro problem which
we met that day, and we scarce knew which we preferred.
Here and there we meet distinct characters quite out of the ordinary.
One came out of a piece of newly cleared ground, making a wide detour
to avoid the snakes. He was an old, hollow-cheeked man, with a drawn
and characterful brown face. He had a sort of self-contained quaintness
and rough humor impossible to describe; a certain cynical earnestness
that puzzled one. “The niggers were jealous of me over on the other
place,” he said, “and so me and the old woman begged this piece of
woods, and I cleared it up myself. Made nothing for two years, but I
reckon I’ve got a crop now.” The cotton looked tall and rich, and we
praised it. He curtsied low, and then bowed almost to the ground, with
an imperturbable gravity that seemed almost suspicious. Then he
continued, “My mule died last week,”—a calamity in this land equal to a
devastating fire in town,—“but a white man loaned me another.” Then he
added, eyeing us, “Oh, I gets along with white folks.” We turned the
conversation. “Bears? deer?” he answered, “well, I should say there
were,” and he let fly a string of brave oaths, as he told hunting-tales
of the swamp. We left him standing still in the middle of the road
looking after us, and yet apparently not noticing us.
The Whistle place, which includes his bit of land, was bought soon
after the war by an English syndicate, the “Dixie Cotton and Corn
Company.” A marvellous deal of style their factor put on, with his
servants and coach-and-six; so much so that the concern soon landed in
inextricable bankruptcy. Nobody lives in the old house now, but a man
comes each winter out of the North and collects his high rents. I know
not which are the more touching,—such old empty houses, or the homes of
the masters’ sons. Sad and bitter tales lie hidden back of those white
doors,—tales of poverty, of struggle, of disappointment. A revolution
such as that of ’63 is a terrible thing; they that rose rich in the
morning often slept in paupers’ beds. Beggars and vulgar speculators
rose to rule over them, and their children went astray. See yonder
sad-colored house, with its cabins and fences and glad crops! It is not
glad within; last month the prodigal son of the struggling father wrote
home from the city for money. Money! Where was it to come from? And so
the son rose in the night and killed his baby, and killed his wife, and
shot himself dead. And the world passed on.
I remember wheeling around a bend in the road beside a graceful bit of
forest and a singing brook. A long low house faced us, with porch and
flying pillars, great oaken door, and a broad lawn shining in the
evening sun. But the window-panes were gone, the pillars were
worm-eaten, and the moss-grown roof was falling in. Half curiously I
peered through the unhinged door, and saw where, on the wall across the
hall, was written in once gay letters a faded “Welcome.”
Quite a contrast to the southwestern part of Dougherty County is the
northwest. Soberly timbered in oak and pine, it has none of that
half-tropical luxuriance of the southwest. Then, too, there are fewer
signs of a romantic past, and more of systematic modern land-grabbing
and money-getting. White people are more in evidence here, and farmer
and hired labor replace to some extent the absentee landlord and
rack-rented tenant. The crops have neither the luxuriance of the richer
land nor the signs of neglect so often seen, and there were fences and
meadows here and there. Most of this land was poor, and beneath the
notice of the slave-baron, before the war. Since then his poor
relations and foreign immigrants have seized it. The returns of the
farmer are too small to allow much for wages, and yet he will not sell
off small farms. There is the Negro Sanford; he has worked fourteen
years as overseer on the Ladson place, and “paid out enough for
fertilizers to have bought a farm,” but the owner will not sell off a
few acres.
Two children—a boy and a girl—are hoeing sturdily in the fields on the
farm where Corliss works. He is smooth-faced and brown, and is fencing
up his pigs. He used to run a successful cotton-gin, but the Cotton
Seed Oil Trust has forced the price of ginning so low that he says it
hardly pays him. He points out a stately old house over the way as the
home of “Pa Willis.” We eagerly ride over, for “Pa Willis” was the tall
and powerful black Moses who led the Negroes for a generation, and led
them well. He was a Baptist preacher, and when he died, two thousand
black people followed him to the grave; and now they preach his funeral
sermon each year. His widow lives here,—a weazened, sharp-featured
little woman, who curtsied quaintly as we greeted her. Further on lives
Jack Delson, the most prosperous Negro farmer in the county. It is a
joy to meet him,—a great broad-shouldered, handsome black man,
intelligent and jovial. Six hundred and fifty acres he owns, and has
eleven black tenants. A neat and tidy home nestled in a flower-garden,
and a little store stands beside it.
We pass the Munson place, where a plucky white widow is renting and
struggling; and the eleven hundred acres of the Sennet plantation, with
its Negro overseer. Then the character of the farms begins to change.
Nearly all the lands belong to Russian Jews; the overseers are white,
and the cabins are bare board-houses scattered here and there. The
rents are high, and day-laborers and “contract” hands abound. It is a
keen, hard struggle for living here, and few have time to talk. Tired
with the long ride, we gladly drive into Gillonsville. It is a silent
cluster of farmhouses standing on the crossroads, with one of its
stores closed and the other kept by a Negro preacher. They tell great
tales of busy times at Gillonsville before all the railroads came to
Albany; now it is chiefly a memory. Riding down the street, we stop at
the preacher’s and seat ourselves before the door. It was one of those
scenes one cannot soon forget:—a wide, low, little house, whose
motherly roof reached over and sheltered a snug little porch. There we
sat, after the long hot drive, drinking cool water,—the talkative
little storekeeper who is my daily companion; the silent old black
woman patching pantaloons and saying never a word; the ragged picture
of helpless misfortune who called in just to see the preacher; and
finally the neat matronly preacher’s wife, plump, yellow, and
intelligent. “Own land?” said the wife; “well, only this house.” Then
she added quietly. “We did buy seven hundred acres across up yonder,
and paid for it; but they cheated us out of it. Sells was the owner.”
“Sells!” echoed the ragged misfortune, who was leaning against the
balustrade and listening, “he’s a regular cheat. I worked for him
thirty-seven days this spring, and he paid me in cardboard checks which
were to be cashed at the end of the month. But he never cashed
them,—kept putting me off. Then the sheriff came and took my mule and
corn and furniture—” “Furniture? But furniture is exempt from seizure
by law.” “Well, he took it just the same,” said the hard-faced man.
VIII.
Of the Quest of the Golden Fleece
But the Brute said in his breast, “Till the mills I grind have ceased,
The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!
“On the strong and cunning few
Cynic favors I will strew;
I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies;
From the patient and the low
I will take the joys they know;
They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go.
Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise;
Brother’s blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies.”