Judas Iscariot.
When the Executive Committee, in response to Mr. Wingate's call, met in
his office the following evening, the Governor's letter was read to
them, and Molly Pierrepont's story repeated. Plans of action were mapped
out, but not without some bitter attacks upon the enemy. Mr. Wingate's
proposal to surrender for the sake of averting bloodshed, if possible,
however, prevailed. The bitter language and threats made by hotheads
would, if they reached the ears of whites, only add fuel to the fire
already burning; so the members were cautioned by the chairman to give
to the enemy no opportunity. But even among the twelve chosen of God
there was a traitor, and since that memorable time nearly every band of
brothers has had its Judas ready at any time of trouble to sacrifice
others to save himself, or betray them for reward. Was there a Judas on
the Republican Executive Committee of New Hanover county? Yes!
In the days of slavery there existed in the South a kind of Negro known
as the "Good Nigger" or "White folks Nigger," who was a stubborn
believer in his own inferiority and the righteousness of his
enslavement. He sneaked around, grinned his way into the confidence of
other slaves, then stole away and told their secrets. Were there any
plots being concocted to rise up and strike a blow for liberty, the good
nigger would inevitably be there to join in the shaping of plans, only
to go out and hang his fellow-conspirators.
The San Domingons in their struggle for liberty found this good nigger a
most formidable barrier, and those who are familiar with the history of
that bloody struggle know just how heart-sickening was the taking off of
this creature wherever found. In many instances they cut off his toes,
his fingers, his ears, his nose, stuffed pieces of these extremities
into his mouth, and left him to die a slow death. The emancipation and
the consequent opportunities for intellectual advancement have not
changed this good nigger, for in numerous instances you will find him
well educated, and often swaying quite an influence in a community. But
he is generally an ignorant, shiftless fellow, forever lamenting about
his freedom, flaying the Yankees for taking him away from his master,
who took care of him. He still likes to sit around on the back steps of
the whites' residences to talk about good old days when he was free from
the responsibility of "keerin' fer mase'f." Or, in higher walks of life,
from pulpit and public rostrum, he's bewailing the shortcomings of his
own people and magnifying the virtues of the whites. He stands among the
ashes of the victims of a mob's fury to abuse the Negro for having been
killed, and to praise the whites for the crime.
George R. Shaw, a prominent negro, writes a card to the public, in which
he says:
"One reason why such crimes are committed by negroes is that there is no
discipline over negro children. From ten years up they are allowed to
loaf about from place to place and with all kinds of characters. They
have no moral restraints. Book learning in colleges dooms the negro to
be fit for nothing. They think they cannot do manual labor. What my
people need is an industrial, moral, common school training. Lynching
does no good, and makes bad worse. The brute who will commit these
crimes never sees a newspaper. Sam Hose and all such should die, but not
at the hands of a mob. The negro must be taught to abhor crime from
principle, not through fear. Let critics take this Sam Hose case home to
themselves. If the same crime was to happen in my immediate vicinity
most any of us would do very nearly like those Georgians did. If we did
not lynch him we would hold the clothing of those that were doing the
lynching."
Shortly after the burning of Sam Hose in Georgia, a good nigger,
signing his name as Shaw sent to a certain Southern paper an article
commending the action of the mob, and expressing a willingness to have
held their coats while the dastardly act was performed. Did this man
know that Sam Hose committed the crime for which he suffered such a
horrible death? Can men capable of committing such deeds as the burning
and mutilating the body of this wretch be relied upon for truth? If
Cranford was one of that mob of cowards who shot to death those manacled
men at Palmetto, the knocking out of his brains would have made a man of
another race a hero.
Calvin Sauls, who had heretofore been a kind of an independent, having
at various times voted with Democrats, Populists, Green-backers and
Republicans, had shown a disposition to be earnestly interested in
Republican success in the campaign of 1898. Running here and there,
attending primaries and committee meetings, full of information as to
the movements of the enemy, he had worked his way into the confidence of
these unwary colored politicians, who considered him an earnest worker
for the cause of Republicanism, so much so that he had been admitted
into the headquarters of the Executive Committee on that evening. "And
Judas, having received the sop, went immediately out, and it was night."
No one noticed Calvin Sauls on that night, as he, taking the advantage
of a moment of exciting debate, slipped out into the darkness, and made
his way into the Democratic headquarters. At the corner of Fourth and
Chestnut streets a dark figure stepped out from the darkness and
confronted him. "Hello dar, Calvin Sauls!" said a gruff voice. "Where is
you sneakin' ter? You got er few uv us fool, but not all. Goin' down ter
tell wa't you foun' out at de committee meet'n, eh?" "O, g'wan way f'm
me, man; I got dese white fo'ks bizness ter ten' ter." The man seized
Sauls and held on to him. "Look er here, some women waited at de corner
of Red Cross an' Fourth street to beat yo' las' night." "Wa' fer?" asked
Sauls, trying to free himself from the man's grasp. "Fur trying ter
suade dey dauters down ter dat Fayette Club for dem white mens." "It's
er no sich ting!" "You lie, you louse!" exclaimed the man, loosening his
hold, and shoving Sauls nearly off the sidewalk. Sauls, recovering,
staggered on his way.
Ben Hartright leaned against a post on the veranda of the Democratic
Club's meeting place when Calvin Sauls came up. "Why hello, Calvin, is
that you?" "Yes, sah, Marse Ben," returned the Negro. "I comin' ter make
ma report." Ben Hartright intercepted Sauls as he placed his foot upon
the door sill and drew him aside. "Say, Calvin, I saw you talking to a
rather striking looking colored girl the other day; who is she? Can't
you fix it so I can get an interview?" "Uh, uh," said Sauls, shaking his
head. "Dat's Bob Sims' gal; she jes from college, an' she's all right
now, I tell yer. You know dem Simses is top er de pot Niggers." "That's
the kind I always play for, Calvin; you know me," answered Ben.
"Gentlemen must always have the best, ding it all! I though you were
sufficiently well bred to know that the best of everything in this world
is for white people." "Dat's so," said Sauls, "but yo member dat time
Bob Sims cum nie beat'n dat white man head off bout insult'n dat tudder
gal er his. I feared mon." "That's all right, Calvin; I'll stand by you.
Molly's gone back on me now; I'm afraid she's converted and joined the
sanctified band. By thunder, she defied me the other night." "Yes, sah,
an' she's in yernes', too; she's on de warpath fur true. I got er heap
ter report ter night, so I see you later on dat udder matter." And Sauls
pushed past Hartright and made his way into the club room.