George Howe.
From the fall of Fort Fisher and political upheavals of the
Reconstruction period to the awful tragedy of 1898, with the exception
of a few tragic scenes, Wilmington had been the theatre of one
continuous comedy, performed by gifted players, whose names and faces
will ever remain indelibly fixed in the memory. Phillis, "State Mary"
Tinny, George Howe, Uncle Abram, Bill Dabney, "Uncle Billy" pass over
the stage before me as I write. But of those who unwittingly struggled
for the foremost rank in the line of fun-making, George Howe must be the
acknowledged star.
Unlike others of the same school, whose minds had become unbalanced by
overwork, worry or disease, George Howe was born a fool. Being a child
of honorable and respectable parentage, the playmates with whom he
associated in his early youth were of that class who regarded his
imbecility as a terrible affliction, were charitable and kind, never
allowing others to impose upon this simple fellow, who was incapable of
taking his own part. But as George Howe advanced in years he gradually
threw off his stupidity, and although he never outgrew the habit of
keeping his mouth open, he ceased to slobber, and acquired the habit of
looking respectable. He entered school and became quite proficient in
one branch of study in particular--he was an excellent reader,
with a wonderfully retentive memory. But he never outgrew his
simple-mindedness, and appellation of "Fool" always justly clung to him,
for, bright as he seemed to be upon many things, he was incapable of
applying his knowledge to his own advantage. George Howe kept abreast
with the doings of the times, especially in the political and religious
world, and these two subjects he was always ready to discuss. Was there
a public meeting called, religious, political or otherwise, George Howe
would be there, often in some conspicuous place, with wide-open mouth
and staring eyes, drinking in all that was said or done.
It mattered not how many were held in a single day or night, George Howe
would spend sufficient time at all of them to tell something of what
took place. For, with a jewsharp as his sole companion, George could
cover more ground in a single day or night than any other inhabitant of
Wilmington, keeping time to its discordant twanks. During political
campaigns, before the press of the city could announce to its readers
the result of the contest, George Howe could be heard howling the news
through the streets of Wilmington. "Oh-o-o, look er here, every
bod-e-e-e! New York, New Jerseee, Dilewar hev gone Dimocratic by big
majoritees. Great Dimocratic gains throughout ther country." When, in
1884, the Democratic party astonished the country and itself by electing
Grover Cleveland to the Presidency by a safe majority, it was George
Howe who led that host of elated Democrats down Front street and toward
the Custom House on the evening of election day to inform Republican
officeholders that at length their time had come to give place for
others. Being generally shunned by those of his own race, George Howe
cherished quite a liking for colored people, and could be very
frequently found among them in their religious meetings. There was
something in the Negroes' mode of worship that seemed to fascinate him,
especially the saints of color who worshipped in old Ebenezer Church, in
South Seventh street. When that most eloquent of pulpit orators, the
Rev. William H. Banks, led his hosts to Cape Fear River's brink, and
drew three-fourths of the worshippers of other denominations with them,
George Howe would be there, yea, marching with the converts themselves,
joining as lustily as they in the singing of that familiar old marching
song:
"I'm er goin' up ter join in the army of the Lord,
I'm er goin' up ter join in the army."
Upon the river's bank he'd stand and drink in every word that flowed
from the mouth of that great divine. No Negro woman or man could lisp
the name of "Brother Banks" with sweeter accent than George Howe, and no
one could sing his praises more earnestly. Who can forget those early
days of revivals and religious enthusiasm in Wilmington, and the three
great divines who filled the three great pulpits from which the bread of
life was given to hungry multitudes. There was Lavender in "Christian
Chapel," Slubie in St. Stephen, and, more powerful and influential than
either of these, was William H. Banks, the pastor of Ebenezer Baptist
Church. Even years after Slubie and Lavender had been called to other
fields, it was George Howe's delight to stand upon the street corner
opposite the residence of the Rev. Banks and sing the parody to that
famous old song that electrified and filled with the spirit the revival
meetings of the early seventies:
"Brother Lavender's got some liars,
Brother Slubie's got some, too;
Jus' carry 'em down to Cape Fear River,
An' Banks'll put 'em through."
Chorus: "Git on board, children," etc.
These great men are gone into the spirit world, but George Howe still
lives. Banks was the last to go, and when that coffined clay was being
borne from old Ebenezer, where for sixteen years he had labored, George
Howe was one of that multitude of bleeding hearts who followed his
precious bones to the burying ground. He stood and looked on until the
last spadeful of earth was thrown upon the coffin and the mound shaped
above it. After the death of the Rev. Banks George Howe became very much
attached to his eldest daughter, Mary Elizabeth, and he could often be
seen leisurely strolling down Seventh street in the direction of Banks'
residence, playing his jewsharp and singing the praises of "Sister Mary
Lizzie" between the twanks.
"I'm er goin' down to Sister Mary Lizzie Banksies;
Sister Mary Lizzie is the daughter of Brother Banks,
An' I think er great 'eal of Sister Mary Lizzie;
Sister Lizzie, I've got ter tell you-u-u."
Pausing in front of the door, he would roll up his sleeves, stretch his
mouth, roll his eyes and make all kinds of comical expressions. "Sister
Mary Lizzie, I'm jus' out er jail-l-l, I'm full er lice-e-e; but jus' as
soon as I take er bath I'm comin' back to see you-u-u, for I have
news-s-s-s to tell you-u-u." The young lady would often have to run in
and lock her doors when she'd see this harmless nuisance approaching.
George Howe was one of the few that listened to the Colonel and Teck
Pervis in the Wigwam on this particular night in October. Even when the
ghastly plans of the murderous clan were being discussed, no one thought
of excluding the town fool, who stood gaping around taking it all in.
Schults, the German, was arranging things in and about his well-filled
and well-patronized grocery store on Castle street on the following
morning, when George Howe entered. Grabbing a handful of dried apples
from a tray which sat upon the counter, he stuffed them into his mouth,
threw his long legs across a flour barrel and momentarily watched the
German as he busied himself about the store. "You didn't git out las'
night, Schults," said he to the German, gulping the apples down to clear
his throat for conversation.
"Oudt! oudt weer?" asked Schults, pausing with a tray of onions in his
hands. "To the meetin' in the Wigwam," answered George. "They done er
powerful lot er plannin' there las' night. The Dimocrats mean business
this time. They say they'll carry the election this time or kill every
Nigger in the district. An' white men who are lukewarm, who don't come
out an' take er stan' with white men will share Niggers' fate. They got
the names of the lukewarm in this affair. I don't want ter skeer you,
Schults, but you are on the black list." Schults had laid down the tray
of onions and was eyeing George from behind the showcase. "What did you
say boudt black lisdt, Gheorge?" "I say they read your name on the black
list last night, an' that means they are goin' ter kill yer, for their
air determin' ter kill everything in the way of white supremacy. I don't
want ter skeer you, Schults; I jes' wan' ter warn you. You hain't tended
eny of their meetings, and they conclude you air agin them. An' then you
wouldn't discharge your Nigger." Schults' eyes flashed. He locked his
hands and brought them down upon the show case hard enough to break it.
"What I keers fer der black lisdt, eh? I dondt keers whadt dey duse mid
Schults. Before I vould hep dem ter harm dese kullod peeples py dams I
suffers ter be kilt. Who ish mine frients? Who buys mine groceries?
Kullud peeples. When Schults cum ster Wilmiton sick mit der rhumatiz,
mit no moneys, mit no frients, who helbs Schults ter git on his feets?
Dese rich bocra? No; dey kicks Schults off de sidewalks, cowhide Schults
on der sthreets. Who helbs Schults den? Kullud peeples! An' befoe I
rais' mine hand 'gin dem I suffer det. Let dem kum, kum an' git Schults
when dey chuse. Don't let dem t'ink fur er moment I no prepare fer dem.
Dem Ghermans who 'lows dem down bhroke ristocrats persuade dem gintz
deir kullud frients who thrade mit dem an' keeps dem from starvin' when
dese rich bocra thry ter dhrive dem frum des country deserbe de cuss ov
Almighty Got! An' you damn po bocras dat allows yo'uselfs ter be make
fools mit you'selfs fer broke down risterchrats ter dhrive kullud
peeples frum dey homes deserfs efry one eff you' ter be kilt." George
Howe's under jaw dropped. He stared at Schults in astonishment, for he
did not expect to witness such a show of bravery on the part of this
quiet German grocer. "I didn't mean to insult you, Schults," said he,
reaching over and helping himself from a barrel of apples which stood
close by. "I jes thought I'd warn you." "Now, dere's dat Gheorge Bohn,"
continued Schults, with apparent inattention to what George had said. "I
see his nhame in der bapers as one uv der leaders in dis supremacy
humbug. Who makes Bohn whadt he is on Dry Pon'? Who makes Gheorge Bohn
whad he is in dis counthry? Dem very peeples who he is now thrin' ter
kill. Dem broke down ristercrats, sich as Moss an' odders, cares no more
fer sich as him den dey do fur de grass neat der feets. When dey gits
demselfs in office dem Dutchmen kin go, po bocras kin go, dey cares
noddings fur yo when dey wus rich. Now dey air po as Job's turkey, dey
wants us Dutchmans an po bocras to dhrive oud our meat an' bread so dey
kin demselfs git fat at de public crib. But I tells you dis: Schults
will haft nodding to do mit dem. I stays in mine house, mine house is
mine castle, and ef dey wants me let dem cum to mine house, by dams I
fills dem full uv lead; yo kin put dat in yo pipe and shmoke id." George
Howe arose, yawned, then slowly walked to the door, turned, dropped his
under jaw and stared again at Schults, who had resumed his work about
the store. "Didn't mean ter hurt yer feelings, Schults, but ter put yer
on yer giard, that unless you jine em dey air goin' ter do yo." George
stepped out upon the walk, drew forth his jewsharp and sauntered up the
street, twanking upon it as he went.
The German to the Southern Negro has been and is what the Jew is to the
Russian peasant--the storekeeper, the barterer. The German citizen has
never been a manufacturer or a farmer; he is in no business that gives
extensive employment to wage earners. But, as a corner grocer, he lays
for the Negro as he goes to and from his toil, and, with cheap wares and
bad whisky, he grows fat upon his unwary customer. The German usually
comes to this country poor, enters small towns, and, by the aid of other
older residents of his nation who have already grown prosperous, he goes
into business on a small scale--grocery business as a rule. He begins in
a one-story structure, one-half devoted to business, while in the other
he lives. These little stores were never without their indispensable
liquor departments, where the trader was invited to refresh himself
after paying his weekly grocery bill.
Before the war the South's best people had no use for the German
emigrant, and did everything in their power to discourage his living
among them. If the slave returned home to his master under the influence
of liquor, the master in many instances went and cowhided the seller.
The flogging of the Negro did not keep him from returning to the German
to trade, and the German prospered, and to-day is among the foremost
property owners in the South. I do not exaggerate when I say that the
German's wealth has come to him solely through Negro patronage; not even
to-day does the people known as the best people trade with Germans.
The Bohns--Joseph, Charles, George and William--coming into Wilmington
in the seventies, had lived principally and conducted business in that
section of the old city known as Dry Pond, and, like the most of their
kind, have accumulated their wealth from the patronage of the colored
people, among whom they had ever lived. This makes the crime of George
Bohn appear the more atrocious and cowardly. George joined the White
Supremacy League during the uprising in Wilmington, and was one of its
most active members. There was a certain colored citizen who knew of
Bohn's secret relations to the movement which disgraced the city. This
man gave the information to the people of his race who were patronizing
Bohn, and entreated them not to support such an ingrate. When the
excitement was at its height, when Red Shirts and Rough Riders were
terrorizing the city, a band of poor whites, headed by George Bohn,
sought this colored man's residence, battered down the door, fired
several bullets into the bed where the man and his wife lay, the latter
in a precarious condition. The house was riddled with shots; they were
compelled to get out and leave their own home, to which they have not as
yet been permitted to return. Bohn, after the deed was done, sneaked
back to his home, and when the horrible crime was reported, tried to
prove an alibi. But George Bohn is the guilty man, and George Bohn shall
not escape! The hand of Justice shall point him out. His name shall go
down to posterity on the list of cowards who, on the 10th of November,
1898, brought into disrepute the fair name of one of the best little
cities on the American continent.