PORTENTIOUS DARKNESS.
“Ye gods, it doth amaze me!
A man of such feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world.”
—CASCA.
A SMALL, dark man, with a lithe form and sparkling eyes, had been busy
preparing Justice Rives’s office for the expected court, as he had been
previously directed, and was unaware of the excitement prevailing in
other parts of the village. His task completed, he seated himself in an
armchair, adjusted his feet high upon the post of the open door, and
with his coat off and fan in hand, sat leisurely reading.
About half past three o’clock he was startled by an imperative voice,
asking, “Where is Rives?”
On looking up from his newspaper, he saw Robert Baker and his legal
counsel seated in the latter’s carriage, which stood before the door.
“Mr. Rives is at his house, I reckon; but he’ll be here directly,” was
the reply.
“Go and tell him to come here to me,” commanded the General.
“I’m not Mr. Rives’s office-boy. I am a constable, and am here
attending to my business. He told me he would be here by four o’clock,
and he won’t come any quicker by my going after him.”
General B.—“Do you know who you are talking to?”
Constable Newton.—“I’m talking to General Baker, I believe.”
Gen. B.—“Well, you scamp! bring me some paper here.”
Newton.—“Here is the office, and here is the chairs, and here is
the paper, and pen and ink, sir; and here is the chairs for all the
attorneys that wants to do business here to come in and sit down.”
Gen. B. (with an oath).—“Bring it to me, sir!”
Newton.—“I won’t do it. Come in, sir, and sit at the table.”
The irate General sprang from his carriage, and, followed by the
ever-ready Gaston, rushed into the court room in a menacing manner. But
the imperturbable constable did not move, nor show signs of disturbance.
Gen. B. (with a vile epithet and oaths, which the reader should
imagine, thickly strewn throughout this colloquy).—“Give me that
chair!”
Newton.—“There is a chair.”
General B. thundered.—“_Give me that chair you are sitting on!_ Get
out of that chair, and give it to me! I want this chair and intend to
have it!”
“All right,” replied Newton, after a pause; “if this chair suits you
better than the others, take it.”
Gen. B.—“You —— leatherhead radical! You sitting down there fanning
yourself!”
Newton.—“I am fanning myself, sitting in my own office, and attending
to my own business.”
Gen. B.—“You vile brute, you! You want to have a bullet-hole put
through you before you can move!”
At this juncture old man Baker and one of his followers, pistols in
hand, reinforced the General, and Tommy rode as close to the door as
possible, with his trusty carbine, while others appeared outside.
Newton arose, and taking his chair by the back, turned the seat of it
toward General Baker, and, still holding the back with both hands, said:
“There it is, Gen. Baker, if you want it; and you can shoot me, if you
want to. Mr. Robert Baker, you know what sort of a man I am. I have
always tried to behave myself when you came in the office.”
Robert B.—“Yes, but” (with an oath) “this drilling has got to stop. I
want you to go for Rives.”
Newton.—“I’ve got no right to go for Rives, and I’m not going.”
Robert B.—“Well you’ll be a dead man, and you’ll wish you had gone.”
Newton.—“I am but one man.”
Gen. B. (with oaths and sneers of contempt).—“Sitting down there with
your feet cocked up!”
Newton.—“Well, General, I’m not dead; but if you’re going to kill me,
why kill me; and that is all you can do.”
Gen. B.—“We’ll take our time about that. We’ll show you, you insolent
darkie!—you contemptible nigger!”
The Bakers returned to their carriages in high dudgeon.
“There is Justice Rives’ private secretary,” said the old man, as they
were about leaving the premises. “If you will speak to him, I think he
will go for Rives.”
“No,” replied the incensed General, “I am not going to be insulted
again. You can do so if you choose.”
Robert Baker did choose, for he preferred to reserve resentment, rather
than allow it to thwart or hinder his purposes. Gaston, however,
‘halted’ the secretary, and undertook the mission himself.
Can the reader imagine the scene in that upper room in Rives’ house,
when a female servant announced that Gaston was at the door below,
urging the presence of Judge Rives at the court-room, as Gen. Baker and
his clients were waiting there; though the hour had not yet arrived?
Noiselessly the entire group descended to the ground floor, and,
screened from view, listened breathlessly to the collocution which,
however, was brief and courteous, as the young man naturally wished to
conciliate the favor of the Judge. He was dismissed with the assurance
that the court should be opened promptly.
Prince Rives (the Judge’s baptismal name was Prince—it might seem
sacrilege to designate a name given in slavery as “Christian”) stepped
quietly into his sitting-room—a perfect bower of flowers, ferns
growing under glass, and singing-birds, where his wife and eldest
daughter were anxiously watching the crowd gathering in the streets.
“I’m going down to the office now,” said he, “and if any trouble should
occur, stay right here in the house, and keep the children in, and you
will all be safe.”
Alas! these were assurances false even to the heart of him who made
them.
Has the reader ever laid a kiss upon a loved one’s brow, and then
watched the dear form passing beyond recall, perhaps, (oh, that
terrible _perhaps_!) if returning at all, to come a lifeless thing—an
uninhabited tenement—or in agony and blood; while the ever active
imagination chafed and chid the hands and feet that fain would do
its bidding and follow that loved form, though duty fettered them to
inactivity?
Or has he gone out under the benediction of love, to meet a hate that
might hold him in its deadly grasp, forbidding his return?
To such we need not describe the adieus exchanged in that little
sitting-room; for the sweet influences of love take no cognizance of
complexion.
Trial Justice Prince Rives soon issued from the front door of his
house, book in hand, erect and commanding, looking the true ideal
African General as he was, and walked leisurely up the street,
unattended, and apparently unarmed; as if to show the mob that at least
one negro was not afraid.
Tall, straight, powerful, his black and shining visage perfectly calm,
he strode through the throng of armed and angry men that surrounded the
door of his office, and crowded the court-room.
Kanrasp and Springer followed at some distance to witness should any
disturbance arise; and while attention was thus attracted towards the
court-room, the officers all made their way to the armory, whither
many other members of the Company and other citizens had already
hastened for safety behind its strong walls, doors and window-shutters.
Women and children fled across the long bridge to the city, or to
the surrounding country; though many remained to guard their small
possessions, and share the fate of husbands and fathers, should the
worst come.
Armed men were still coming in, and yet more rapidly, and the sinking
sun heralded a brief, southern twilight and a moonless night; while a
great terror took possession of the inhabitants of the doomed village.
A few straggling members of the Company appearing with their guns,
which they had formerly taken to their homes for cleaning, became the
unfortunate subjects of a hue and cry as they hurried along towards the
rendezvous, and were marked for the night’s barbarities.
No small exhibition of nerve was now required of that African
Major-General of the obnoxious “National Guards,”—one of the very men
whose high military position was so offensive to the white men now
surrounding him, and thronging his court-room, that, though notably
fond of the practice of arms, they utterly disregarded the law
requiring their enrollment as State Militia-men, lest they might be
subordinated to him.
Yet with measured step and dignified mien he passed the carriage where
the Bakers still sat, greeting them with easy politeness.
“I should like to know whether you are sitting in the capacity of
Major-General of State Militia, or as a Trial Justice?” said Gen.
Baker, when all was in readiness.
“That will depend upon the nature of the testimony. I am sitting as a
peace officer; and if the facts are such as to justify my sitting as a
Trial Justice, I will do so; if not, it will be otherwise.”
“It is immaterial to me; I merely wanted to know. I want to investigate
the facts of this matter, and either capacity will be agreeable to me,”
replied the General.
At this juncture the Intendant (Mayor), approached, and whispered to
the General, “I think if you would suspend this trial for awhile, we
could settle it.”
“Just ask the Judge. If he suspends I am willing.”
A brief conference ensued, after which the Judge announced a suspension
for ten minutes.
This caused dissatisfaction among the spectators, as a peaceful
adjustment would be but a tame issue of all their military preparations.
Intendant Garndon then conducted the plaintiffs and their attorney to
the council chamber, which was separated from Dunn’s shop on the corner
or Main Street by only one half the width of a narrow street.
At this time the largest and most unruly part of the cavalry was
gathered about this corner groggery, and a less suitable place for the
conference could not have been selected; but each would-be peacemaker
seemed to think peace most attainable on his own premises.
Though the distance was less than four squares, as they could proceed
but slowly through the throng, it sufficed Gen. Baker to administer a
lecture to the dusky official upon his personal culpability in having
allowed “this so-called militia company,” to train “upon Mr. Robert
Baker’s road,” and with arms in their hands—though, doubtless the
poor, berated mayor found difficulty in understanding how a public
highway could be “Mr. Robert Baker’s road,” or how he could have
disarmed the State’s militia.
As has already been stated, quite a number of colored citizens, and of
the rank and file of the militia men, had gathered in and about the
armory, hoping to find protection there.
Among them was Dan Pipsie, who was quite sober, and his own plucky self.
“Well, if I war Captain Doc, I’d do anyt’ing on earth to settle dis
myself,” said Dan. “I wouldn’t have de blood of all dese collo’d
families on _my_ head. When I die, I don’t want no man’s wife cussin’
me, noh blamin’ me fo’ his death.”
“Capt. Doc a’n’t a bit to blame now,” replied Mann Harris. “I was ’bout
two hundred yards from ’em at the time of the fuss. I saw Gaston and
Tom Baker drive down, and get out and go into Nunberger’s store. I saw
the company coming back, an’ they was a gwoine up then, and they met
and talked awhile, an’ the company divided an’ let them go through.
Let’s go down, an’ see Rives about this, Ned O’Bran, an’ git him to
send a dispatch to the Governor to help us.”
“Well, come on,” replied Ned.
They entered the quiet office of the Justice, and found him sitting
there alone, and looking over books and papers.
“General, what _is_ you doing?” asked Harris, with emphasis.
“I am waiting for people to come into court again.”
“If you wait here awhile longer, they’ll make you jump out o’ here
entirely!”
“What is the matter?”
“Well, there’s about four hundred men out there with guns and pistols.”
“Ah! I’ll go out and see—Well, really, this is surprising! What is all
this about?”
“I don’t know,” said the excited Harris. “They’re gwoine to take the
guns away from the armory.”
The three men walked up the street conversing. Meanwhile Captain Doc
entered his own apartments, which it will be remembered, were in the
same building as the armory or drill room.
“I’ve been in my shirt sleeves,” said he to his wife, “ever since I
left my bench at noon; but, (with a grim smile,) if I’m gwoine to see
such big men as General Baker or the Laud, I reckon I’d best put my
coat on.”
“Oh, Doc, don’t talk so ’bout de Laud! I’m awful scarred to have yo’
go.”
“I’ve got a right to go. They say General Baker’s gone up to the
Council Chamber, and he and Garndon’ll be expecting us.”
“I’m awful scarred fo’ yo’, an’ I’m a mind to go ’way myself. ’Spex
they’ll be shootin’ ’round yere so the baby couldn’t sleep no how.
Mann Harris, he’s taken his wife off, ’bout an hour by sun, or so,
poor soul! sick as she’s been, now mighty nigh on to a year. Mann tole
me he’d positive his word thar’ would be no fuss nor killin’; but I’d
positive my word he war’ ’feared, else he wouldn’t come totin’ Dinah
down all dem stairs, an hauled ’er off up to Miss Pipton’s; fo’ it’s
mighty nigh on to fo’ mile ovah da; and Dinah has determined to me that
it hurt her tolerable bad to stir at all.”
The Captain had been looking out of the window while she spoke, towards
Dunn’s store and the Council Chambers, Turning abruptly, he asked—
“Where is the baby?”
“I done toted ’er ovah to Elder Jackson’s but I can’t let ’er stay dar.
I’ll jes lock up de house, an’ git de baby, an’ clar out ovah de rivah,
fo’ de scar o’ stayin’ in dis yere house’ll perish me out, if I’m de
onus one fo’ a quarter hour mo’.”
“Now, Debby, yo’ get the baby, and take ’er over to Rives’s, and stay
thar, he’s been so conciliating to ’em, and they think a heap o’ him.
Blamed but I wish the baby was here a minute till I kiss ’er ’fo’ I
go up to see General Baker. Don’t get scared now. They won’t hurt the
women, I reckon. It’s only them as votes an’ can manage a gun they’re
after. Take care yo’rself,” and he kissed her.
“Oh, ain’t yo’ scarred to go, Doc?” sobbed she, clinging to him. “I
spex yo’re forced to by persuasion; but I’m feared they’ll put a bullet
into yo’, and maybe fifty.” Here she broke down entirely, and wept
aloud, sobbing, “Oh, don’t go, Doc! don’t go!”
“But I’ve got a right to, to save the town. He’ll lay it in ashes. I
wouldn’t like to tell yo, all the way they’re talking, and making big
threats, and abusing us to everything yo’ can think.”
“To my knowance they’re mighty bad; and I’m mighty glad Mann Harris
sent his wife off.”
“Well, Debby, yo’ go and get the baby, and take good care of her. I
reckon you’d best tote her ovah to your mother’s ’cross the river. Some
on ’em might hurt her if they knowed she was mine.”
They left the house together, and Doc locked the door, and put the key
in his pocket.
“Oh, my lawses!” exclaimed Mrs. Doc. “Don’t yo’ go up thar, Doc! Jes
see such heaps o’ men! Jes lots and piles of ’em! _Now yo’ sha’n’t go!_”
“No mo’ I won’t! They picks out all the hardest places for a man to go
to; but his soldiers ’d follow the General anywhere. There he is now.
_He_ ain’t gwoine to meet _me_. See! He knows I’m here well enough, but
he won’t look at me. Ah! He’s gwoine over to the city. P’raps he’ll
just clar out, now he’s got the rest agoing. There’s Kanrasp, and Rives
too.”
General Rives and his two neighbors met General Baker at the next
corner. The latter was on horseback and rode up to General Rives and
demanded the name of the Colonel of the Eighteenth Regiment.
“Colonel Williams,” was the reply.
“Where is he?”
“At his house, I reckon.”
“I want him. I want those guns, and by——I’ve got to have them.”
“General Baker, I don’t know what to do about them. I’ll go up and see
the Captain, and consult with him, and see if he says to give them up.”
A moment later and he met Judge Kanrasp, who was earnestly urging the
colored men, women, and children who were huddled in knots upon the
street, to go home and remain quietly in their houses.
“Kanrasp,” said Judge Rives, “It is no use for you to stay here and get
killed; and you will be killed if you stay,—a ‘carpet-bagger and a
radical,’ like you.”
“That’s so,” added Marmor, and Doc, and Watta, who now joined the
group; and they hastily accompanied him down to the Rail Road platform
nearly opposite the armory, and urged him to flee, as one who would be
first attacked. Rapidly crossing the river, upon the Rail Road bridge,
the train, which arrived, in ten minutes took him homewards; too soon
for the accomplishment of his purpose to learn Gen. Baker’s mission to
the city.
Never were the combative characteristics of the whites and colored
races in the Southern States more clearly exhibited than in the scenes
at Baconsville that day, though leading colored men, whose exceptional
energy, and perhaps assertion, had made them such, were necessarily
prominent. Not bravery, so much as skill in its exercise, constitutes
the white man a leader among his fellows.
In general terms it may be said that timidity, with extremely rare acts
of rashness, characterizes the colored race, bravado and arbitrary
assumption, of the white and both are the victims of mutual suspicion
and distrust, which often _cause_ the dreaded ill.
Gen. Baker was absent half an hour, and on his return a general
remounting took place, while over the hill at the back of the village,
came a large company of horsemen, all well armed.
Down Main street they rode, two abreast, and were at once distributed
throughout the town; a squad upon each street corner, attended by an
equal number of infantry; all with weapons in hand ready for immediate
action.
Look which way they would, the distracted freedmen saw armed men, and
re-enforcements constantly arriving from all directions.
Darkness was approaching, and though the hills around were still
touched by the glow of the setting sun, its refracted rays seemed to
exaggerate the squalor, and magnify the deformities of the little town
in the valley; and, exalting the warlike preparations, to clothe them
with every imaginable horror; while the humidity of the evening air
intensified the sounds of blood-thirsty riot.
Justice Marmor now closed and locked his office door, and began at this
tardy moment, to think of adopting Mrs. M’s advice.
Stepping out of his own back door, he leaped the fence into his
neighbor’s yard, and, mounting his doorsteps, stood in a closely
latticed corner of a porch, and took observations.
The square was surrounded by the Rifle-clubs,—the remnants
and second-growth of the cropped, but not uprooted Confederate
cavalry,—standing thick, two abreast, with guns resting upon each left
arm.
In the vernacular of the South, Marmor was “a _scallawag_,” for, though
once a brave Confederate soldier, he had become a consistent advocate
of the idea that the “all men” who are “created free and equal”
includes the colored race; and probably no man in the devoted town
stood in greater danger than he.
“Co im ’s house, Meester Marmor:——i’m ’s house quick!” said Dan
Lemfield, opening the back-door of his dwelling. You be mine neighbor,
and shall not be shot on mine dreshold. Co hide self! Co!”
Marmor did not decline the invitation, but stepped quickly in, and
passing to the parlor in front, peeped from behind the window shades,
which Mrs. Lemfield had drawn closely down.
At the opposite corner of the street, his most implacable enemy, the
eldest son of Col. Baker, sat upon his horse, with self-complacent
manner waiting the appearance of his prey, or the word of command from
the great General. He was supported by eight or ten other men, not less
vigilant.
“Oh, Mr. Marmor!” besought Mrs. Lemfield, “do go up stairs, and keep
out of sight. They have threatened about you so much that some of them
will surely come in here, and kill you! Do go up, quick! quick!”
Marmor obeyed, and immediately the host, who had been out, re-entered
with wild eyes and white lips.
“Vo ish dat mon, Sarah?”
She signed with her hand, in reply; at the same time saying, in an
indifferent tone, “Oh, he’s gone up, he is not here,” for their little
child had entered, and she feared it might betray their guest.
The excited Jew (for Lemfield was a Jew) leaped up the stairs, calling
out as he ran, “Don’t shoot! It’s me—jist me. Oh, moine goot freund!
Vat vill dese men to? Shenneral Paker say he vill hab de guns, oder he
vill pekin to fire in von half hour. Colonel A. P., dat ole man you
seen sthrapping on dem pig bistols by’me Post Office, he tole me close
up mine par in’ leetle sthore. Vell, dey ish hab too much visky now;
so I mind quick, I tell you! He tole same ting yo’ mudda, an’ she pe
shut up.”
“Where is she?” asked Marmor.
“My golly! Se ist plucky ole voman. Se im leetle sthore—all ’lone by
self. She not come avay.”
“Where are my wife and children?”
“Im house—your house. Dat ish pest blace. Nicht wahr? Pest not pe mit
you.”
“I don’t know,” replied Marmor, absently.
“Oh, ya! Mon come here, mon sag, ‘Meester dare sure.’ Now co dis vay,”
and he led the way to a loft; “Here co om roof van dey get you. Hark!
Vat dat noise down stair ish?”
The next instant Mrs. Marmor rushed into the chamber and threw her arms
about her husband’s neck in a paroxysm of weeping.
He folded her to his breast, and commanding a calm and cheerful tone,
said, “Jane, Jane, don’t give way so. Why, I’m not afraid; I shall come
off all right, and nobody will hurt you or the children. Our people are
chivalrous, and won’t hurt a woman.”
“Oh, you don’t know! you don’t know!” she sobbed. “Capt. Baker just
now told me, as I was coming to bid you good-bye,” (here her sobs
interrupted her speech) “he told me,” she resumed, “if I wanted to
save my children from getting killed, to go into the house and lock
the doors. And so I must go and save my poor babies. Duck got scared
and ran off and left me all alone,” and she placed her cold trembling
hands on either side of her husband’s face, and kissed him. Then
pressing them upon her heart, she descended the stairs, moaning aloud.
“Great heavens! Am I a _man_?” exclaimed Marmor, “to let my wife go
like that, and I hiding to save my own life!” and he sprang to the
stairs to follow her.
Quick as thought, the Jew placed himself before him, and held him back.
“She be not cry for self; just for _you_. You co da, she cry more. Man
not touch her, noh leetle kinder. Yo’ co hide now, quick!”
Five minutes later, the same Col. Baker, her husband’s enemy, rapped
loudly upon Mrs. Marmor’s door, with the loaded handle of his
riding-whip.
Almost too much frightened to stand, she opened the door, and peeped
out.
“You must take your children, and leave this house if you do not want
to be killed,” said the gallant Colonel.
“Oh, where shall I go? What shall I do?” cried the distracted mother.
“You must get out of here, and that is all I can tell you,” said he,
with an oath. “No use to lock your door—leave it open, I tell you, and
go!”
Nearly all the colored people had, by this time, taken the advice of
Judge Kanrasp, or of their fears, and fled the streets. Like timid
conies, some sought the vain shelter of their homes, others that of the
neighboring cornfields or river-banks and bridges, and still others
fled to the surrounding country.
Doc, Watta and Sems went across the street after Kanrasp left, taking
about thirty or forty men with them to the drill-room on the second
floor.
About this time four colored men were seen to issue from an humble
dwelling, and, with heroic purpose as their only visible weapon,
they quietly made their way along the fortified streets. They were
frequently halted and their business demanded, when their uniform reply
was “To see Gen. Baker;” and the moral sublimity of their position
seemed to impress even the conscienceless rioters, for only verbal
abuse was hurled at them.
Arm-in-arm walked Gen. Justice Rives and the Methodist preacher—Elder
Jackson—(visibly quaking within his spotless linen, and coat of snowy
whiteness). Behind this worthy pair came Springer, the chief man of
money and of business in the town, with Lem Picksley, a well-known,
peaceable, and long-time resident; the best educated and best-liked
citizen.
At length they found the man they sought—armed, mounted and surrounded
by cavalry arranged in warlike attitude, who appeared to reverence him
as their chief.
“Gen. Baker,” said Rives, “we have come to ask if there is _anything_
we can do to make peace.”
“Nothing will satisfy me but the surrender of the men and their guns.”
“We have no authority to surrender them, as you very well know.
The men are not criminals convicted, and you have no warrant or
authority of law; and the men say their oaths to the State forbid
their surrendering the arms to you. If you can show any authority for
receiving them, that you have more than any other private citizen, they
will give them up at once; but they say they cannot otherwise, because,
if they should voluntarily yield them up to you or any other private
citizen, especially surrounded by such an armed body as this, without
authority of law—well, General, you’re a lawyer, and you know what the
law calls it. The law and their oath of office will not allow them.”
“Rives,” replied this great chieftain, “you are the Major General of
the State Militia in this district, and can demand them.”
“Not without cause, or order from my superior!”
“By ——!” said the negro-catcher, Baker, who stood near, “you had
better do something, for there’s going to be —— to pay here, if those
officers and guns are not delivered up.”
“I want to see the Colonel of this regiment. I want these officers and
these guns,” said Gen. Baker with great vehemence.
Ned O’Bran, who had joined the four peace-makers, now slipped through
the crowd and back to the armory.
“How does it look, Ned?” asked Lieut. Watta from a window above his
head.
“It looks squally. Now, Watta, you men just bar the windows and doors,
and let nothing nor nobody in the world in there; and by this means
they will have nothing nor nobody in the world to fight, if they want
to fight, but themselves. There’s bound to be a fuss; for I heard Gen.
Baker say myself, that what he intended to do this evening won’t stop
till after the seventh of next November, and that is election day, you
know. So shut yourselves up, and keep still.”
Watta closed the window, and Ned returned to the place of conference.
A horse pushed against Springer’s companion, and he mildly laid his
hand upon the animal’s shoulder and said, addressing it, “Take care,
sir!”
Quick as thought the rider’s whip cut a smart gash upon the dusky cheek.
The chivalrous Gen. Baker, looking on, took out his own pocket
handkerchief, and wiped the perspiration from his own face, while
the unoffending mulatto wiped the blood from his; and Springer’s
unflinching eye arrested the hand of another of the General’s aids, as
he was about to send a bullet through his (Springer’s) brain.
Neither the attack nor menace elicited rebuke nor notice from the
“high-toned” General, who disdainfully turned and rode away.
“If we will box the guns up,” said Rives, following him, “and return
them to the Governor, will _that_ be satisfactory?”
“—— the Governor! I am not here as the Governor of South Carolina,
nor his agent, but as General Baker!”
“Well, we are sorry if there is nothing we can do to make peace,
General, but (turning to his companions) we must return without it, and
each do the best he can for himself.”
“Here’s Ned O’Bran,” said Springer in an undertone, “Brother Jackson,
you had better go with him, for his house is outside of the picket
lines; and as you’re a member of the Legislature, you must look
out—they’ll be after you shor.”
“I was just going down to the drill room to be safe myself,” said
O’Bran. “My family went on so that I am on my way back to the armory.”
“You can’t get through this way. The pickets are everywhere. You had
best go home. It’s every man for himself, and the Lord for us all,”
said Springer, and the men separated.