The Massacre.
The five days prior to the massacre Wilmington was the scene of turmoil,
of bickerings between the factions in the political struggle; "Red
Shirts" and "Rough Riders" had paraded, and for two or three days
Captain Keen had been displaying his gatling gun, testing its efficiency
as a deadly weapon before the Negroes.
All of these demonstrations had taken place to convince the Negro that
to try to exercise his right as an elector would have a disastrous
result. Upon the conservative and peace-loving these things had the
desired effect. But the bolder ones showed a rugged front, and on
election day hung about the polls and insisted upon exercising their
rights as citizens, and many clashings were the results. But the major
portion of black electors stayed at home in hope that the bloodshed
which hot-headed Democrats had been clamoring for as the only means of
carrying the election might be averted. When the sun set upon the little
city on the 9th of November there seemed to be a rift in the storm cloud
that had for so many weeks hung over it, and the city had apparently
resumed its wonted quiet. Far out on Dry Pond, in the old "Wigwam" a
gang of men had met, who ere the sun should set upon another day would
make Wilmington the scene of a tragedy astonishing to the State and to
the nation. They had gathered to await the signal to begin; they had
good rifles and a plentiful supply of ammunition, and their tethered
steeds standing about the old "Wigwam" were pawing and neighing for the
fray. The clock in the old Presbyterian Church on Orange street dismally
tolled out the hour of three. Teck Pervis arose, yawned, walked up and
then down the floor among the men who lay asleep with their weapons
beside them. He made a deep, long, loud whistle; the men began to arise
one after another, and soon the room was in a bustle. Some were washing
faces, others sipping coffee as a forerunner of something hotter that
would stimulate and give force to the spirit of deviltry that the work
of the day required.
"Gentermen," said Teck Pervis, standing in the middle of the hall and
holding a cup of coffee in his hand. "This is ther day thet ther white
people of North Ca'liny is going ter show Mr. Nigger who's ter rule in
Wilmin'ton, and there's ter be no drawin' back in this here bizness."
Just then Dick Sands interrupted the leader by jumping out into the
floor. He shuffled, he danced, kissed his gun, threw it into the air,
and twirled it between his fingers like a born drum major. "Gentermen!
hit's ther happies' day I seed sence way foe ther war. This is er day I
bin er longin' fur and prayin' fur eber since ther ding Yanks cum and
freed Mr. Nigger an' sot im on ekal footin' wid er white man. Laws er
massy me'. Gentermen, I'se seed things happen in this here town sence
Fo't Fisher fell thet wus enuf ter make eny dec'nt white man go inter
his hole, an' pull his hole after 'im. Think uv it, gentermen, think uv
it! Nigger lawyers, Nigger doctors, Nigger storekeepers, Nigger
teachers, Nigger preachers, Niggers in fine houses--why, gentermen,
jedgmint hain't fur off. Who was in ther Cote House thet day when thet
Nigger White tole Colonel Buck he did'n no law? I wus thar, an' never
wanter see sich ergin. Evrybody jis' opened his mouth an' stared fus at
ther Nigger an' then at Colonel Buck. I felt thet ther merlineum wus at
han', jus' waitin' ter see ther worl' turn een uppermos', an' go ter
smash. Whoopalah! but we air goin' ter show um sump'n ter day, an' I jes
wish thet Nigger White wus in Wilminton, fur these big Niggers'll be the
firs' whose cases we'll try. Oh. Mr. Peaman, Oh, Mr. Bryant, Mr. Miller
and all you uns er the Afrikin foe hundered! yo time is cum!" Dick Sands
ended his harangue by turning a somersault. "I jes bet Dick Sands owes
Tom Miller now," said a young chap who sat leaning against the wall with
his legs spread out, laughing at Dick's Indian-like antics. "Yes,"
broke in another; "Tom's he'ped er lot er we po' devals; he's lent out
thousans er dollars in all ter white men. Hits er shame ter do him!"
"Yes, I mus admit that I owe Tom, but this is er time fur me ter jump
bail," said Dick Sands. "I don't b'lieve thet er Nigger should hav es
much money es Tom's got no way. Hit's ergin his helth. You know Niggers
liv longer po' then they do when they air rich, bekase when they're po'
they air in ther natruls, an air easier kept in their places. Hit's
these foe hundred Niggers thet er raisin all ther trouble." ...
"Well, les git ter bizness, gentermen," broke in Teck Pervis "There's er
lot befoe us ter do; Hell is ter begin at ther Cotton Press under Kurnel
Moss, while Cap'n Keen'll kinder peramerlate er roun in ther middle er
ther town with thet everlasting hell belcher uv his ter keep tings in
check. Kurnel Wade, Tom Strong, Hines an uther big uns will sortie er
roun' to'ards Dry Pond an blow up ther print'n press; thets ter draw
ther Niggers out frum ther Cotton Press, so thet Kurnel Moss kin git at
um, an mow em down. We uns will canter to'ards Brooklyn holdin' up
Niggers as we go. Then we air to jine Hill, Sikes, Turpin, Isaacs an'
others, an' raise hell in thet sexion. We uns air ter take no chances
wid theese Wilminton darkies. I ain't ferget Seventy-six. Let nun git by
without bein' sarched, uman er man. Shoot ef they resiss. Them's the
Kurnel's orders." "Who is this man Isaacs?" asked a stranger from
Georgia. "A Jew?" "Thet name's Jewey e'nuff fur yir, ain't it?" replied
Dick Sands. "He is er Jew, an er good un, I tell yer. I never took much
stock in er Jew, but this here un is er bo'n genterman, mo fit ter be
Christun. No church in hard circumstance is ever turned away from Ole
Mose; he he'ps em all, don't kere what they be, Jewish, Protestan er
Caterlick, white er black. He throde his influence with ther
Prohibitionists some years er go, an foute hard ter make er dry town
outer Wilminton, but ther luvers uv ole ginger wair too strong an jes
wallop'd ther life out er ther cold water uns. Ole Mose tuk hit cool, he
died game, took his defeat like er bon fighter, bekase he'd done an
fill'd his jugs an' stowd em up in de house afore ther fight begun, so
he cu'd erford ter be beat. Takin er drink in public was ergin his
creed. Nice ole Jew tho. Keeps er paint store down street, and deals in
painters' merterial, but never buys er baral er biled oil wonc't in five
yers; but, like de widder in the Scripter, he alers has er baral ter
draw frum when er customer wants biled oil. Ole Mose is er fine man tho;
jes go in his stoe ter buy sumthin, pat him on his back, and tell him he
is er bo'n genterman, an thet you b'lieve he kin trace his geneology
back ter Moses an ther prophets, and thet his great-granddaddy's daddy
was ther only Jew thet sined ther Dicleration of Independance; thet he
looks like Napolyan, and he'll jes go inter his office an fetch yer ther
fines' segyar yer ever smoked an foller yer all over ther stoe. Nice ole
Jew Isaacs is. Ter see him stridin down ter bizniss ov er mawnin, yer
air reminded uv ther prophets uv ole jurneyin toards Jarusalum ter read
ther law." "What is the feller's name?" soliloquized a sallow-looking
chap who stood with his back to the stove scratching his head in
perplexity. "Name?" returned Dick Sands. "Why is you bin er listenin ter
me all this time an dunno who I'm talkin erbout?" "Excuse me," returned
the sallow man; "I no powerful well who yer ware talking er bout, and I
wus tryin ter think uv ther name uv thet chap who's bin er stump speakin
up in Sampson." "Fisher?" "No-o-o, thet ain't ther name; he's ther
feller thet's runnin fur Congress." "Belden!" exclaimed several in one
breath. "Thet's ther feller. Look er here," continued the sallow man,
"he tole we uns up there thet ef we cum an he'p ter make Wilminton er
white man's town, we ware ter jes move inter ther Niggers' houses an own
em; thet's what brung me here ter jine in this here fite." "Well, I tell
yer fren," answered Dick, "we air goin ter make this er white man's
town, thet's no lie, but ther ain't no shoity er bout ther other
matter." "Boots an saddles." Further conversation was cut off. Every man
flew to his horse and the host of murderers were off in a jiffy.
The city of Wilmington was startled by the loud report of a cannon on
the morning of November 10th, 1898, which made her tremble as though
shaken by an earthquake. Molly Pierrepont arose, hastened to the south
window of her cottage and looked out; the clouds which hung low over Dry
Pond were as brilliant in hue as though they hung over a lake of fire.
"Tis fire!" exclaimed Molly; "the hell hounds are at their work. Ben
Hartwright is keeping his word. But it's at the Cotton Press that the
dance of death was to really begin, where hundreds of unsuspecting men
are at work. The fire and the cannon shot are only a ruse to entice them
out to be shot down. They must be warned! I must warn them!" She hastily
dressed herself, locked her cottage and hurried away. Down Bladen street
she hastened, turned into Fourth and across Bony bridge. At the corner
of Campbell street she came upon a large body of armed men who were
parleying with a negro who was making a futile protest against being
searched. More than half a dozen of them thrust pistols into the
helpless and frightened man's face, while two others rifled his pockets
for firearms. All this Molly took in at a glance, as she hurried down
Campbell street toward the press. At the corner of Third street she
encountered five white boys, mere lads, who were proceeding up Campbell
street. "Halt!" cried they all in one voice, and five pistols were
thrust into her face. Molly paused, but with no show of embarrassment or
dismay. "Come, hol up your hans!" commanded one of them, advancing a
step nearer. "Hol on, fellers, we're not to search white ladies," said
another, lowering his pistol, and attempting to push the others aside.
"O, she's no lady; she's er nigger; I know her," returned the lad who
gave the command. "Search her! tear her clothes from her! All er these
nigger women are armed." The boy raised his hand to seize Molly, but was
not quick enough. Molly stepped back; a quick raise of her foot sent the
boy sprawling into the gutter. This completely demoralized his
companions, who broke and ran. A gang of men coming up Third street
inspired the boys to renew the attack upon the woman, who was hurrying
on her way. "Nigger," cried the boy, raising himself up and scrambling
from the gutter into which Molly's well-aimed kick had sent him. The men
ran and overtook Molly, spread themselves across the sidewalk in front
of her. "Will I never be permitted to reach the press?" she murmured to
herself. "You've got ter be searched, ole gal," said one of the men,
with a mocking smile of triumph in his face, "an' you jes' es well let
these boys go through them duds er your'n an' have done with it. Come
now, hands up!" and they all glared like hungry wolves at the woman, who
stood apparently unmoved. Molly drew herself up to her full height.
"Cowards!" she shrieked. "Not satisfied at the cutting off of every
means of defense from the black men of Wilmington, that you may shoot
them down with impunity, you are low enough to take advantage of their
helplessness to insult weak women. But here I stand!" she cried,
stepping backward, and drawing a gleaming revolver from beneath her
cloak. "Search me! but it must be done when the body is lifeless; I'll
be a target for the whole of you before I'm searched; so let the battle
begin."
The men stared at the woman in amazement. "Pluckies' Nigger gal we're
tackled ter day!" exclaimed a gruff and rough-looking chap. "Got grit
enough ter buil er fort. Let her go, men; not er hair un her hed mus' be
tech'd!" The men stepped to one side, and Molly proceeded on her way.
When she reached Front street the sight which met her gaze caused her
blood to chill. From Front to Water street below was choked with armed
men. To pass through such a crowd without much more difficulty was
impossible. "Too late!" she sobbed. Rushing across the railroad bridge,
she hastily descended the steps to the road below, crossed the tracks to
the shed of the great compress, and entered by one of the large side
doors. News of burning and pillage on Dry Pond had been conveyed to the
workmen by another, and the news had brought confusion among them
indescribable. At the main entrance to the press stood an army of
whites, ready to shoot them down as they rushed forth to go to the
rescue of their wives and little ones whom they thought were being
murdered. White men with a cannon mounted on a lighter anchored in the
river just opposite were waiting to fire upon those driven back by the
fire from Colonel Moss' riflemen in Water street.
A crowd of frightened and angry men hastily retreating towards this
death-trap were suddenly confronted by a woman, who like an heavenly
messenger, stood with uplifted hand, her hair streaming in the wind.
"Back! Back men!" she cried. "To go to the river is to be killed also;
they're waiting there for the opportunity." "Molly Pierrepont!"
exclaimed one of the men in astonishment. "No time for questions now!"
said the woman; "your only safety from slaughter is to remain in this
shed; you are not able to cope with that mob of cowards on the outside,
who now are even searching women in a most shameful manner on the
streets. Back! Don't rush like fools to death." Molly's head began to
whirl. Before any one could reach out a hand to catch her, she sank in a
swoon upon the floor. Tenderly the prostrate form was lifted up, and
borne to a place of safety, and an effort made to revive her. At the
front entrance were huddled hundreds of negroes, cursing and crying in
their desperation. On the opposite side of the street in front of a
company of armed whites stood Colonel Moss, his face red with
determination. Above the oaths and groans of the helpless negroes his
harsh voice was heard: "Stand back, Mr. ----! I tell you again, stand
out of the way, that I may blow them into eternity." Mr. ---- heeded him
not, and Colonel Moss was afraid to fire for fear of injuring a British
Consul. There were tears in the eyes of this good man as he went about
among his angry workmen imploring them to keep cool. It was his bravery
and presence of mind that prevented the ignominious slaughter of
hundreds of defenseless men by a mob of armed cowards, who stood there
awaiting the signal from Colonel Moss to "Blow them into eternity."
Dispatching a messenger to Dry Pond, who returned with the assurance
that no one had been killed, was instrumental in cooling the negroes and
inducing them to return to work. Mr. ---- kept at his post until the
white mob melted away to join their fellows in other portions of the
city. Look! up Front Street comes an excited crowd of men and boys.
Every one of them seems to be wrought up to the highest pitch of
excitement. Every individual is struggling to get to some one who is in
the centre of the crowd. On they come! struggling, pushing and swearing.
As the mob draws near, the tall, stately figure of an old man is seen
towering above them. His abundant hair and beard are shaggy and gray. He
stares wildly at his tormenters, and begs them to spare his life. They
shove, they kick, they slap him. "Shoot the Yankee dog! Hang him to a
lamp post! Nigger hearted carpet bagger! Kill him!" Still the crowd
pushes towards the depot. "Who is this man? What has he done?" asked a
stranger. "Done!" exclaims a citizen close-by. '"Why he's been teachin'
niggers they're es good es white men." "How long has he been in
Wilmington?" "Ever sence the fall er Fort Fisher." "Is he a tax payer?
Is he or has he ever engaged in any business in the community?" "Well,
yes; he owns er whole county up the road there er piece." "Think of it!
Bin here all these years, an' we can't make er decent white man out'n
him!" "Well, if he has been in this community as long as you say, and
is to the community what you acknowledge, I'd like to know what right
his fellow citizens have to--" "Well now, stranger, don't you think
you're gettin' too inquisitive? When er white man shows that he's ergin
er white man, the question of what he owns don't cut no ice; he's got
ter go. This is er white man's country, an' white men are goin' ter rule
it." Saying this the citizen hastened away to join the mob, who were
then crossing the bridge to the depot to put the undesirable citizen
upon the train to send him away.
The mob that had a few hours previous made a futile attempt to butcher
the negroes at the Compress had now moved in the direction of Brooklyn
like a whirlwind, sweeping men, women and children before as it went.
Negroes, filled with terror and astonishment, fled before this armed
mob, who shot at them as they ran.
When in a certain battle during the Revolutionary War, terror stricken
colonists were retreating before the superiorly equipped and disciplined
British soldiers, it was Israel Putnam who vainly implored the
frightened Americans to make a stand. General Putnam cursed and swore,
when he saw that it was impossible to stop his men and induce them to
give battle to the British. Was there a Putnam here to essay to inspire
courage into these frightened negroes, who left their wives and children
at the mercy of the mob, and were fleeing toward Hillton? Yes, there was
one, and his name was DAN WRIGHT. Did Dan Wright fully realize the
enormity of his act as he faced this mob of white men, armed to the
teeth, now pressing down upon him? Did Dan Wright feel that death was to
be his reward for this act of bravery? Yes, but this did not deter him
or affect the steadiness of his aim. Above the oaths and yells of this
band of cowards, now almost upon him, the report of his rifle rang out,
and a bandit reeled and fell from his horse. But Dan was not to escape;
the crowd pressed upon him and crushed him to the earth; they riddled
his body with bullets, and dragged him bleeding and torn through the
streets. "Back wench!" cried a bandit, as poor Mrs. Wright pressed
forward to succor her dying husband. "You shall not touch his black
carcass; let the buzzards eat it!" But the mob did not tarry long beside
Dan's bleeding form; they swept on to Brunswick Street, where they
divided, some turning into Brunswick, while others rode toward Hillton.
Dan Wright did not die in the street, however. Torn and riddled as his
body was, he lingered a few days in agony in the city hospital before
death released him. "And the king followed the bier; and the king lifted
up his voice and wept; and the king said, 'Died Abner as a fool dieth?'"
As we gaze upon the bleeding form of this simple negro, this question
comes forcibly to us: Died Dan Wright as a fool dieth? Was it right for
him to stand alone against such fearful odds? Yes, that the chronicler
in recording this terrible one-sided fight might be able to mention one
act of true bravery; that among so many cowards there was one man.
I knew Dan Wright ever since he was a lad. He was simple, quiet,
unobtrusive; pious in life and glorious in death.
"He was swifter than an eagle; he was stronger than a lion." Over the
humble grave in which he sleeps no shaft of granite rises to point to
passers-by where this martyr to the cause of freedom lies. But when
Justice shall write the names of true heroes upon the immortal scroll,
she will write the names of Leonidas, Buoy, Davy Crocket, Daniel Boone,
Nathan Hale, Wolf, Napoleon, Smalls, Cushing, Lawrence, John Brown, Nat
Turner, and then far above them all, in letters that shall shine as the
brightness of the firmanent, the name of DAN WRIGHT.
Unlike most of the heroes named above, Dan's name will not in this
generation be engraved upon brass or steel, or carved in marble. To an
unsympathetic world he was an outlaw, who raised his arms against kings
and princes, who feel that they have the sanction of God Himself to
trample upon the lowly.
With tall pines as sentinels keeping watch over it, and stars for tapers
tall, the body of this immortal hero lies beneath the soil enriched by
his blood.
"Fleet foot on the corey,
Brave counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is the slumber!"
Who killed this simple fellow, and the score of others of his race who
fell on that eventful day? The blame is laid upon the Georgians, who
were invited there to assist in restoring white man's government, when
there had never been any other government in existence there. But who is
really responsible for this cowardly massacre? Wilmington's best white
citizens, by whose invitation and under whose directions the Georgians
acted. And what better market could have been sought for murderers and
cowards and assassins, and intense haters of negroes than Georgia? In
ante-bellum days Georgia outdid all other slave-holding States in
cruelty to its slave population. The North Carolina master could subdue
the most unruly slave by threatening to sell him or her into Georgia.
The old negro voo-doo doctor or fortune teller could fill any negro for
whom she had formed a dislike with terror, and bring him to her feet
begging for mercy by walking backward, making a cross with her heel and
prophesying, "You'll walk Georgia road."
When Georgia, the altar for human sacrifices, perfumed by the odor of
cooked human flesh, travailed, she brought forth the prodegy of the
nineteenth century, whose cries for blood would startle Catherine De
Medici and cause Bloody Mary to look aghast.
Georgia bore upon her sulphurous bosom an Andersonville, within whose
walls thousands of the nation's noblest sons suffered the most inhuman
treatment and died the most agonizing and ignominious death. Georgia
trained her cannon upon these emaciated, starved vermin-eaten creatures
rather than submit to their rescue by an invading army. Georgia's
convict camps of the present day are worse than slavery, and more
intolerable than the Siberian mines. The order of the States upon the
map should be changed so as to read as follows: North Carolina, South
Carolina, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisana, Texas, Georgia, Hell. The
people of Wilmington were bargaining for the genuine article when they
sent to Georgia for trained murderers and assassins.
Josh Halsey was the second one to fall on that fatal day. Josh was deaf
and did not hear the command to halt, and ran until brought down by a
bandit's bullet. Josh Halsey was asleep in bed when the mob turned into
Brunswick Street, and his daughter awoke him, only to rush from his
house to death. The mob swept on over his prostrate form, shooting into
private dwellings, and frightening men and children, who fled to the
woods for safety, or hid beneath their dwellings.
Let us go back and see what has become of Molly. To bring her around it
required heroic efforts on the part of men and the women who were the
sewers of bagging on the docks. Too weak for further effort in behalf of
her people, she was tenderly lifted into a buggy, carried up by way of
the old Charlotte depot to her home in Brooklyn. Mrs. West, who knowing
of her determination, and anxious as to her fate, had arrived at the
cottage that morning too late to intercept Molly. She lingered about the
cottage, however, and when they bore the exhausted and faint girl home,
the foster mother was frantic with grief. "It was only a fainting spell,
mother," said Molly, as Mrs. West bent over her. "I was there in time to
save them, but it cost me--oh so much." "You have done nobly," returned
the mother, soothingly. "Your name should be placed upon the roll of
honor, my dear. Go to sleep; rest serenely upon your laurels."
Dr. Philip Le Grand.
St. Stephen's Church on the corner of Red Cross and Fifth Streets, in
Wilmington, is among the finest and most refined of the A. M. E.
Conference. In appointing ministers to this post the most diligent care
has always been exercised, for the appointee must be of the most
eloquent, the most learned and efficient in the gift of the assembly. So
St. Stephen's audiences have listened to some of the world's best
orators, and have had the word expounded by superior doctors of
divinity. Who of that great church can forget Frey Chambers, Thomas,
Nichols, Gregg, Epps and others whose names I cannot now recall? St.
Stephen's is among the finest of church edifices in the city, put up at
a cost of over sixty thousand dollars, with a seating of twenty-two
hundred. Back of her pulpit stands an immense and costly pipe organ,
operated by water power, and presided over by a young woman raised up in
the church, educated in the public schools of Wilmington. During the
political upheaval in Eastern North Carolina, it was the fortune of Rev.
Philip Le Grand, D. D., to be the pastor of St. Stephen's, in
Wilmington, and there is living to-day. Many men and women owe their
lives to the wonderful presence of mind, superior tact and
persuasiveness of this grave, good man. Besides being a minister, he had
filled many positions of trust in the South. Yet Dr. Le Grand was both
unassuming and undemonstrative. He looked for and expected a clashing of
races on election day in Wilmington, but that which took place on the
10th of November was far more than he was prepared to grapple with. The
dawn of that fatal day found the streets of Wilmington crowded with
armed men and boys, who had sprung, as it were, by magic from the earth.
Aroused by loud noises in the neighborhood of his residence, the
minister arose early, dressed and hastened into the street. A large
crowd of colored citizens, mostly women, stood upon the street corner
half a block away, excitedly talking and brandishing broomsticks,
stove-pokers, hoes, axes and other rude implements of war. All was
confusion among them. There seemed to be no leader, but each individual
was wildly ejaculating in a manner that showed that she or he was highly
wrought up. Dr. Le Grand came slowly up to them, paused and raised his
hands for silence. "Why this excitement so early in the morning?" he
asked. "We's prepared fer um ter day," said a woman, coming forward and
brandishing a broomstick. "Dey says dey gointer kill niggers, but we's
gwine ter tek er few er dem long wid us." "Bah!" exclaimed the minister.
"What will such a thing as that amount to against rifles? Disperse and
go home, or you'll be sorry." This command had but slight effect upon
this throng, whom Rev. Le Grand left and proceeded toward a crowd of
white men and boys who stood not far distant, apparently debating the
question of bearing down upon and dispersing the blacks on the corner.
"Halt!" said one of the men, stepping in front of Mr. Le Grand and
placing his rifle against his breast. "You can't go no further; this
town's under military law now." "What means this demonstration?" calmly
asked the minister, with his eyes fixed steadily upon the face of the
man who had given the command. "It means that white men are in charge of
things from now on," said another fellow, stepping up and eying the
minister contemptuously. "You educated nigger preachers have been
teaching your race that white men are not ordained to rule, and such
teaching has got 'em beside themselves, so much so that the white people
are compelled to take stringent measures."
"Will you kindly inform me who the leader of this movement is?"
persisted Dr. Le Grand calmly. "Big words these," said the first man who
had spoken. "I guess we'd better settle this nigger." "Hold on, Sam,"
said the second man, pushing aside the gun the man had raised. "This is
St. Stephen's preacher. He is not on the list." "I'm out here in the
name of peace," said Dr. Le Grand, "willing to do anything to bring that
end." "Well," said the leader, producing a notebook from his breast
pocket, and scribbling something in it, "we came out to-day to wash the
streets in nigger gore, and if you can induce them to go home, you and
others of the leading men of your race, instead of encouraging them to
bully white people, you can save many lives. Colonel Moss is the
gentleman to go to. But you'll need a pass," tearing a leaf from the
notebook and handing it to Dr. Le Grand; "and I doubt if that will take
you through the lines. You will doubtless find the colonel somewhere in
the down-town section of the city. Stand aside, men, and let him pass."
Dr. Le Grand took the slip of paper and started for the section of the
city indicated, but the way was so choked with men and boys, who
challenged and parleyed with him in spite of the permit he carried, that
progress was slow. Men whom he had met in his common every-day life in
Wilmington, men who had been cordial and gentlemanly in their greetings,
now either hurled bitter epithets at him, or passed him with averted
eyes. Several times during that morning were guns pointed into his face
as he paused here and there to stop collisions that were constantly
occurring between white and black men, fatal in every instance to the
blacks, who, without arms, were no match for the well-equipped whites,
who took advantage of their helplessness to bully them. The most
thrilling scene witnessed was that which made the minister's heart
faint, although the incident excited the admiration of all who beheld
it. Above the oaths of excited men and boys was heard a wild cheer a few
blocks away, followed by the defiant cry of a negro boy, who came
panting up the street, unmindful of the cry of "halt" that issued from
many lips. Frantically waving a huge revolver in his hand, he fell upon
his face within a few yards of where the minister stood, pierced by a
rifle ball. Turning over slowly upon his back, he leveled his pistol and
fired into the crowd of men closing in on him, shattering the arm of a
Georgia bandit. "He is dying!" exclaimed the minister, with uplifted
hand to prevent the men from doing further violence to the dying lad,
whose life-blood was making crimson the sand where he lay. One man in
the crowd stooped and picked up the pistol that had fallen from the
lad's grasp. He raised it up before the crowd and said: "Let him die in
peace, boys; I admire a brave heart, if it is under a black skin." The
crowd dispersed. The minister got down upon his knees and raised the
lad's head into his arms. He opened his eyes and fixed them upon the
face of the man of God, who had begun to stroke his forehead with his
hand. "God be merciful to thee, my son," said the minister tenderly.
"Dat's all right, parson," returned the lad faintly, with a smile upon
his ebony face. "I tol' um I'd die foe I'd giv' up ma gun, an' I tink
dat when I tun ober dat time I got one er dem."
"What is your name, my son?" asked Dr. Le Grand, eagerly. There was no
answer; the boy was gone into undying life. The minister gently laid the
little hero back upon the ground to await the arrival of the
undertaker's wagon, and went on his way. This incident somewhat awed the
bandits, some of whom stood off some little distance and watched him
through the scene; and his progress was attended with but little
further difficulty. When he reached Front Street, however, the Record
Office on Dry Pond had been burned, and the futile attempt to murder the
workmen at the cotton press had been made. Several black men had been
killed during the morning, and their bodies left where they had been
shot down. At the corner of Front and Chestnut Streets three men passed
him under guard, walking rapidly toward the depot, and whom he
recognized as prominent citizens--one a grocery man another quite an
extensive real estate owner and money lender, while the third, a white
man, had been a magistrate in the city for quite a number of years.
These men were being escorted to the trains by soldiers, who had
considerable trouble in keeping a mob of men and boys from doing them
violence. "Well, what are you standing up here for?" asked a man,
turning aside from the throng that surrounded the fugitives, and
akimbowed in front of the minister. "No niggers are allowed to loiter;
white men are in charge of affairs from now on." "I have a pass that
permits me to interview the Colonel," answered Dr. Le Grand, holding up
the paper before the man's eyes. The man took the paper and read it
slowly. "Come," said he in a gentler tone of voice, "I'll take you
through to the Colonel, for you can't go by yourself." Across the
street, and in the direction of the cotton press they proceeded. At the
corner of Mulberry Street they met Colonel Moss going southward, with a
crowd of soldiers and citizens about him. He scowled at the minister,
his face flushed with anger as the minister saluted. "What do you want?"
he roared. "That's the question I have come to ask you," returned the
minister. "What do you wish us to do? We are willing to do anything to
stop this carnage." "We want nothing! We are masters of the situation,"
answered the Colonel hotly. But the minister persisted. "Hear me,
Colonel. This is indeed a one-sided fight. Our men are unarmed, and are
the chief sufferers in this affair." "It's your own fault," roared
Colonel Moss. "We gave you colored leaders time to comply with our
request to burn the negro's printing outfit. We waited twelve hours for
your reply, and it came not, so we took the matter into our own hands.
We propose to scourge this black pest out of Wilmington. If you can
induce them to go to their homes and recognize the authority of the
white people, you can prevent further bloodshed." "I will do my best,"
replied the minister. Dr. Le Grand was placed in a buggy, between two
whites, to protect him against violence. This man of God finished that
day, and the other days of terror to the unfortunate negroes, in
inducing rebellious black citizens throughout the city to submit to
overwhelming odds against them, and staking his own life upon the good
character of this or that man or woman in danger of being killed for
some trivial charge made by a white person, whether remote or recent.