Mrs. Adelaide Peterson's Narrative.
New Bedford, Mass., Dec. 19, 1899.
Dear Jack Thorne:
In compliance with your request for a narrative of what I witnessed of
the massacre which took place in Wilmington, N. C., in November, 1898, I
herewith write for the information of the world what happened in the
section of the city known as Dry Pond. The plans for the slaughter of
November 10th had been carefully laid. The negroes, lulled into a
feeling of security by the usual yet unexpected quiet election, were
utterly surprised on the morning of the 10th to find the streets choked
with armed men and boys. The mob, it seems, formed at the Court House,
and dividing itself into bands scattered into every direction, holding
up and searching both black men and women, beating and shooting those
who showed a disposition to resist. On the corner of Seventh and Nun
Streets stands Gregory Normal Institute for colored youth, with Christ
Church (Congregational) and the teachers' home, comprising the most
beautiful group of buildings in the city. This is the property of the
American Missionary Association. The morning devotions had just ended in
this school on the morning of the 10th, and scholars were going to the
different class-rooms, when the report of a gun threw the entire school
and neighborhood into confusion. Children ran to their teachers for
safety, who, with blanched faces, stood dumb with terror, for a mob of
armed whites had already surrounded the buildings and completely blocked
Seventh, Ann and Nun streets. On Seventh street, between Nun and Church
streets, in a small wooden structure, the much talked of _Wilmington
Record_ had found a temporary home, and this was the objective point of
the mob. Surrounding this building, they battered down the door, broke
in pieces the printing outfit, and then set fire to the building. Many
women, with their little ones, took to the woods, so thoroughly
frightened were they at this strange and unlooked-for spectacle. Black
men were awed into helplessness by the superiorly armed mob. I was at
the ironing table, when one of my little ones ran in and told me that
the school house was on fire. I hurried out to join the crowd of anxious
mothers, who were hurrying in that direction to rescue their children,
whom, they supposed, were in danger. But we were not able to get past
the crowd of men who surrounded the Record building. The cries of the
frightened children could be heard, and the inability of the mothers to
reach them added to the horror of the scene. One mother, frenzied with
grief and desperation, pushed and shoved her way through, despite the
threats of the mob. One little girl died of sheer fright. The shooting
without, mingled with the oaths of the men and the frantic wails of the
women without were too much for the little one to bear. Her teacher's
assurance of safety were of no avail. The teachers finally made a bold
front, pushed their way through the crowd and delivered the frightened
children to their frightened parents, some of whom did not return to
their homes, but hastened to the woods for safety. I returned home. My
husband, who worked at the Press did not arrive until late that night,
he having had serious difficulty in passing the armed whites who lined
the streets, and challenged him at every corner. He informed me that
Colonel Moss, on leaving Dry Pond, went immediately to the Press with
the intention of killing all the men at work there, but was thwarted by
the coolness of Mr. ---- and Molly Pierrepont, who went from her home to
warn them. I bless that woman for her courage. She stood like a goddess
among those men and prevented them from rushing into a trap prepared for
them. My husband at first thought it unsafe to remain in the house that
night; the poor whites were heavily armed and were likely to do most
anything. They had already fired into several houses in the
neighborhood. Some one rapped at the door. I was too frightened to move.
My husband finally opened the door, and in staggered Joe Bently,
bleeding profusely from a large gash in his forehead. He said: "I was
trying to reach the hill this evening without being searched, as I did
not want to part with my gun. At the corner of Market and Front streets
I met Mr. Philip Hines, who offered to take me through the crowd to
safety, and led me right into trouble. I was held up and searched. Ben
Turpin took my revolver from me and gave me this gash on my forehead
with the butt of it." I bathed and bound up Bently's wound, and he lay
himself upon the lounge in my dining-room, and being weak from the loss
of blood, soon dropped off to sleep. We were too frightened to lie down.
Thirty minutes elapsed. We heard the sound of footsteps approaching; the
door received a vigorous kick. "Hello!" came from without. "Say
Peterson! Don't be afraid; this is McGinn!" My husband opened the door.
"Is that you, Mr. Mac?" said he. "Yes, we are looking for that feller
Manly." "I guess he's far away," returned my husband. "Well, its good
for him that he is. Who's in there with you?" "My family." "Well, I
believe you, Peterson. Good night." The men went their way. We were
molested no more during the night, but shooting was kept up at intervals
in the neighborhood all night. Some citizens slept under their houses
for safety.
The morning of the 11th of November dawned clear and cold, and the
sufferings of those who were compelled to sleep in the open air were
terrible. At about nine o'clock Rev. Simons called at my house. He had
his wagon laden with comfortables for the suffering ones. "Hundreds are
in the woods," he said after greeting me, "and God only knows what their
sufferings were during the night."
"People of the Saxon race, whom we have trusted so implicitly, this is
your work, for which you must answer to God," and with his hand he
brushed away a tear. Together we rode to the woods, my husband remaining
home with the children. Far beyond "Jump and Run" we came upon quite a
crowd of women and children, who had built a large fire, and were
huddled about it. One woman, a tall creature, ran to meet us as we
approached with outstretched hands and a maniacal stare in her eyes.
"Where's my husband?" she shrieked. "Is it true he is killed? An' are
you comin' to kill me?" "No, my dear," answered the minister, "we come
to bring you comfort." "No! no! no!" she cried. "Tell me no more about
God. Hagar's children have no God. They are forsaken! Lost! lost! lost!"
Several women came up and took hold of the demented creature and led her
away. "She's los' her mind," said one. "She sat here las' night an' saw
her dear friend an' neighbor die in the agony of childbirth; and that,
with the news of her husband's death has unbalanced her mind." "There
lays the woman," said another, taking the minister by the hand and
leading him to where--cold and lifeless--the body of the woman with that
of the new-born babe by its side. The poor, demented creature had taken
a seat upon a stump beside the corpse, and was moaning and wringing her
hands. "Lord, be merciful!" exclaimed the minister, with clasped hands.
"They are all about here," said another woman; "these are not all that
have died during the night." We busied ourselves in giving such comfort
as lay in our power. In our search among the bushes we came across
several dead and others dying from the night's exposure. So thoroughly
frightened were these people that we could not induce them to believe it
safe to venture back to their own homes. The situation was indeed
appalling. On our way into the city we met some humane whites going out
to persuade the frightened refugees back.
The 10th day of November, 1898, can never be forgotten. I will not close
this narrative without mentioning an act of bravery performed by a lone
woman which stopped the vulgar and inhuman searching of women in our
section of the city. The most atrocious and unpardonable act of the mob
was the wanton disregard for womanhood. Lizzie Smith was the first woman
to make a firm and stubborn stand against the proceeding in the southern
section. It was near the noon hour when Lizzie, homeward bound, reached
the corner of Orange and Third streets. A block away she saw a woman
struggling to free herself from the grasp of several men who were, in
turn, slapping her face and otherwise abusing her. The woman fought
until her clothes were torn to shreds; then with a shove the men allowed
her to proceed on her way. Lizzie could have saved herself by running
away, but anger at such cowardice had chased away every vestige of fear.
She leisurely walked up to where the fight was going on. "Halt," said
one of the ruffians to Lizzie, "an' let's see how many razors you got
under them duds. That tother wench was er walkin' arsennel. Come now!"
roared the man, "none er your cussed impert'nence." Lizzie, instead of
assaying to comply, akimbowed and looked defiantly at the crowd about
her. "Oh, yo' po' white trash." "Shut up or we'll settle you an' have
done with it," said the leader, making a motion toward his hip pocket.
"Yo' will, eh!" answered the girl, "yo' kan't skeer me. But ef yo'
wanter search me I'll take off ma clothes, so yo' won't have ter tear
'em," and Lizzie began to hurriedly unfasten her bodice. "Yo've got ter
search me right," she continued, throwing off piece after piece; "yo'll
fin' I am jes' like yo' sisters an' mammies, yo' po' tackies." "That'll
do," growled one of the men, as Lizzie was unbuttoning the last piece.
"Oh, no," returned the girl, "I'm goin' ter git naked; yer got ter see
that I'm er woman." White women were looking on from their windows at
this sight so shocking. One had the courage to shout "Shame! how dare
you expose that woman in that manner?" "Them's the curnel's orders,"
replied the leader, raising his hat. "Who is the Colonel, and what right
has he to give such orders?" shrieked the woman. "You ought to be
ashamed of yourselves for your own wives and daughters' sakes." The men
skulked away and left Lizzie victor on the field. Yours for justice and
right,
ADELAIDE PETERSON.