At Mrs. McLane's.
It was Thanksgiving Day. The political storm increased tenfold in
velocity and destructiveness by race hatred that had swept through the
old city of Wilmington, devastating homes, leaving orphans, widows and
ruined fortunes in its wake, was slowly abating. A city in a state of
siege could not have presented a more distressing appearance. Soldiers
and armed white men and boys stood in groups on every street ready to
pounce upon and disperse any assemblage of black citizens upon the
streets. The ringing of church bells, the call to praise only served to
intensify the fear of colored worshippers whose meetings had been
previously broken up by armed mobs. These dusky worshippers, devout as
they were, had not the faith sufficient to enable them to discern the
smiling face of God through the clouds which hung over them.
Demoralized, dejected, disconsolate, they dodged about here and there
like sheep having no shepherd. Just as the bell in the tall steeple of
the old Baptist Church on Market street was making its last long and
measured peals there crept out from behind the old Marine Hospital a
woman leading a little child by the hand. Both were wretchedly clad.
Thrown about the woman's shoulders was an old quilt. Her shoes were tied
with strings, which were wrapped around the soles to keep from leaving
her feet. Her skirt, tattered and torn, hung dejectedly about her scant
form. The child, barefooted and with only one piece to hide its
nakedness, dodged behind its mother as it walked to keep the wind from
striking with its full force its emaciated body. The woman, though young
in years, was old and haggard in face. Her woolly hair, unkempt and
sprinkled with gray, the result of just three weeks of privation,
apprehension and dread, bulged out from beneath the old shawl which
covered her head. At the northwest corner of the hospital fence she
paused, looked cheerfully toward her own cottage, but a few blocks away,
then slowly walked on in that direction, the child toddling at her
side. "What is the bells ringin' for, mamma?" asked the little one. "It
ain't Sunday." "It's Thanksgiving Day, and we usually go to church on
that day," answered the mother, slowly. "What is Thanksgiving Day?" "It
is a day set apart by the President for the people to assemble and give
thanks for--for--blessings--received during the year, my child." This
last answer tore that disconsolate mother's heart till it bled. She had
reached the gate of her cottage, from which she had fled on the night of
November 10th to escape insult and murder. A white woman sat upon the
steps knitting, her children playing about the yard. The colored woman
stood and momentarily gazed in amazement at the intruder upon her
premises. "Well, whart du you wannt?" said the white one, looking up
from her work and then down again. "What do I want?" returned the
colored one. "That's the question for me to ask. What are you doing in
my house?" "Your house?" "Yes, my house!" "Niggers don't own houses in
dis here town no mo'; white uns air rulin' now," was the saucy response.
"We uns air in these houses, an' we air goin' ter stay in um. An' mo'n
thet; them's ther Mair's orders." "You poor white trash; I worked hard
for this house, and hold the deed for it, so you get out!" So saying,
she caught hold of the latch. The white woman rushed to the corner of
the fence and screamed "Police!" at the top of her voice.
"Well, what's ther mater here?" asked one of the four men who came
running up in response to the woman's call. "This nigger cums here ter
purt me out er this house." "This is my house!" broke in the other. "My
house," repeated the man, with a sneer. "Pocession is nine-tents er th'
law. She's in, you air out, so git." Several colored people had
responded to the call, most of them women. "Come, Eliza," said one,
putting her arms affectionately about the wretched and angry woman's
waist, while another took the little one in her arms. "It's no use to
waste words; we all have suffered at the hands of these superior (?)
people. But God will give the wrong-doer his reward in due season. Come
with us, my dear, and wait patiently." "All my nice furniture being
ruined by this dirty cracker, and I can do nothing to prevent it,"
sobbed Eliza, struggling to free herself that she might fly at the
throat of the intruder, who stood glaring at her in triumph.
"Take her er long," said the white bully, "Or I'll lock her up. The time
fer Niggers ter sass white fo'ks is past in Wilmington."
"Come, Eliza; that's a good woman." The woman walked reluctantly away,
to be cared for by her neighbors.
* * * * *
That evening at about dusk Mrs. McLane, an old and wealthy white
citizen, stood at the window of her palatial dwelling on Third street
watching the twilight fade--watching the Thanksgiving Day of 1898 slowly
die. Mrs. McLane had not attended church; she felt more like hiding away
from the world to be alone with God. In her devotions that morning she
had cried out with all the fervency of her soul that God would turn away
his anger from a people with whom He was justly displeased.
"My people are to-day imbued with the feeling of boastfulness in their
own strength rather than thankfulness to God. For can any of us feel
that God has countenanced the murder, pillage and intimidation which the
whites of Wilmington have resorted to? And for what?" Thus she
soliloquized as she watched the day die. The clock in the old
Presbyterian Church slowly chimed the hour of six. A long jingle of the
doorbell awoke Mrs. McLane from her reverie. "Mrs. Hill, Mrs. Bruce and
Mrs. Engel, missis," said a servant, slightly pulling the door ajar and
pushing her head in. "All right, Margaret, I'll be right down," answered
the lady. "Tell Aunt Susan that the guests I expected to tea are here."
"Yes m'm." The servant disappeared, and Mrs. McLane slowly descended to
the parlor. "Why, Marjorie!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, as the hostess glided
into the parlor, where the three women sat chatting. "How could you stay
at home from church on such a lovely day! You missed a treat, you--"
"Tea's ready, missis," said Margaret, appearing suddenly in the parlor
door. "Now, ladies, we must retire to the dining room and let
conversation aid digestion; remember that my tea has waited until half
an hour past the usual time for you. So, without further delay, let me
lead the way to tea," and Mrs. McLane proceeded to the dining room,
followed by her three visitors. "Well, from Mrs. Bruce's exclamation
when I entered a while ago I must infer that you all enjoyed church
service immensely." "Well, I should say so," promptly answered Mrs.
Bruce. "I don't see how any one could have remained at home on such a
day as this. And, you know, we have so much to be thankful for. Dr. Jose
quoted for his text, 'He that is slow to anger is better than the
mighty, and he that controlleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.'
'We have taken a city,' said he, 'our city; freed it from ignorance and
misrule.' I, for one, am grateful to see our men have so nobly shown to
the women of Wilmington that they are worthy of our loyalty and
devotion. I said to my husband, after reading that infamous and
slanderous article in the Record, that our men were too pigeon-livered
to take that Nigger out and give him what he deserves; and I think it
was just such talk from our women in the households that brought about
this revolution. Such as the white people of Wilmington have been
compelled to resort to would never have happened had the
good-for-nothing Yankee left the black where he belonged, instead of
wrenching him from his master and then educating him into the belief
that he is as good as he who owned him. This Manly is a new Nigger--a
product of Yankee schools and colleges. Freedom and education have
worked only harm to the Negro by putting high notions into his head.
Blacks of Wilmington have had more sway than was for their good, and
they need checking, and it has come at last. We will have no more black
lawyers, doctors, editors and so forth, taking the support from our own
professional men. And no more such disgraceful scenes as we have been
compelled to endure--well-dressed Negro women flaunting about our
streets in finery, when they ought to be in their places. Why, we can't
order a gown or bonnet, but what, before we can get into the street with
it on our backs, some Nigger woman flirts by with the very same thing
on, style, material and all. It is preposterous! How I have burned in
desire to jump upon them and tear the things off and flog them, as they
deserve. And to go to Seventh street on a Sunday or on a week-day, for
that matter, the sight is heart sickening! There Sambo and his woman,
dressed to death, strut along with heads erect, looking as important as
though they owned the city, or, astride their bicycles, they'll ride
plumb over you. But we have put a stop to Nigger high-stepping for a
while at least, thanks to our true and patriotic men, blue-blooded
Southern gentlemen." "And our boys, who did so nobly!" chimed in Mrs.
Engel. "Yes! yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, with a triumphant laugh. "How
full of zeal and love for home and country they are! It was indeed
charming to see them hold up big, burly blacks and make them stand until
bidden to pass on. One of the most amusing and gratifying sights was the
holding up of a big Nigger woman, right in front of my gate. She reared
and charged, but to no purpose; those boys made her shake her duds. They
pulled her clothes almost off her back trying to make her stand until
searched." "And you didn't protest against such ungallant treatment of
a woman, and by mere lads?" asked Mrs. McLane. "Protest! Why, Marjorie
McLane! You must not, my dear, allow yourself to think of such creatures
as women entitled to such consideration as is due white women. How did I
know but what that creature had set out to burn some lady's dwelling.
Protest? No! decidedly no! I just stood there and enjoyed the fun. I am
afraid you are too full of Yankeeism, Marjorie. You should be thankful
that our enemies are vanquished. When Colonel Moss reached Dry Pond,
instead of showing fight and standing by their editor, whom they upheld
in slandering white women, they scampered to the woods." "And the poor
frightened creatures are still there. They cannot be induced to return,
and the suffering among them is intense. Mothers have given birth out
there, and they and their offspring have died from exposure." "Poor
creatures!" exclaimed Mrs. Engel. "God pity them and us!" continued Mrs.
McLane. "If what has been done in Wilmington within the last few days is
the work of gentlemen, then in the name of God let us have a few men in
Wilmington, if such can be found." "But, my dear--" "Don't interrupt me,
Mrs. Bruce! Hear me through," said Mrs. McLane, raising her voice. "May
the groans of these suffering women and children ever ring in the ears
of Colonels Moss and Wade, and may the spirits of their murdered victims
unrelentingly pursue them through the regions of hell." "Marjorie
McLane!" exclaimed Mrs. Bruce, in astonishment. "Such language from a
Southern lady!" said Mrs. Hill. "Yes, a Southern lady clothed in her
right mind," returned the hostess. "These men in their blind zeal to
restore white supremacy, and to defend women, have unmistakably
demonstrated their weakness. White supremacy cannot be maintained by
resorting to brute force, neither can the women of one race be protected
and defended while the defender of virtue looks upon the destruction of
the other race as only an indiscretion.
'Thou must be true thyself
If thou the truth wouldst teach.
Thy soul must overflow
If thou another's soul would reach.'
"Enduring supremacy, the supremacy that will be acknowledged is
supremacy of character, supremacy of deportment, supremacy in justice
and fair play. We have irreparably lost our hold upon the Negro because
we lack these attributes. We must not allow ourselves to feel that the
Negro in this enlightened age is incapable of knowing and appreciating
true manhood and true gallantry. To shoot men after they have been
totally disarmed, and after they have surrendered everything as a peace
offering is cowardice without parallel.
"What would Lee and Jackson have said should their departed spirits
return to gaze upon men who so bravely followed them through the
wilderness, in perilous times, leading in such dastardly work as was
done in Wilmington on the 10th of November? 'Whatsoever a man soweth
that shall he also reap.' It is not in future fires that men are to get
the reward for their doings, but here in this life. Our fathers have
sowed the seeds that are sprung up now in race troubles and discord. The
North was first to see the danger, and gave the warning; but we blindly
plunged into four years of bitter strife, to maintain what we thought
was our right. The troubles through which we are passing are the reaping
of the fruits of the sowing of our fathers. The conduct of our people on
the 10th of November shows plainly to my mind that we are making the
same mistakes. We are foolish enough to sow that which will cause the
harvester to curse us in his misery. Here were boys not over twelve
years of age armed and licensed to insult women, tear their clothes from
them and humiliate them." "Humiliate them!" echoed Mrs. Bruce, with a
sneer, "as though such creatures could be humiliated. They are entitled
to no respect from white men." "And we should not allow ourselves to
think of them as women with the same feelings and propensities that we
have," said Mrs. Engel. "I say," continued Mrs. McLane, "that the Negro
woman should be considered a woman in the fullest sense of the term, and
those men and boys who in their zeal to protect white women humiliated
and disgraced black ones, insulted and humbled their own mothers,
sisters and sweethearts; for what disgraces one woman disgraces another,
be she white, black, red or brown. We, the white people of the South,
have acknowledged the black woman's right to all the sympathy that we
ourselves may expect. She has carried us in her arms and suckled us at
her breast, and in thousands of instances her word has been the only law
among our children in our nurseries. She heard and faithfully kept the
secrets of our lives. We sought her advice, and believed in the efficacy
of her prayers." "Now, Marjorie, you know," said Mrs. Bruce, "that such
Negro women are still dear to us; these old mammies and uncles who know
and keep in their places are never troubled in the South. The Yankee did
us a great injury by lifting the Negro out of his place, and making him
feel that he is as good as we are. It is this new Nigger that is
causing all the trouble. The black woman, allowed to dress and flaunt
about illures, tempts and often robs our domestic life of its sweetness,
while the black man, with the wrong conception of freedom, often makes
it impossible for our men to leave their homes unguarded." "Bah! away
with such nonsensical babbling! You are saying, Mrs. Bruce, that which
down in your innermost soul you do not believe. Such talk as that has
given Southern women undesirable notoriety, and is making the world
believe that to keep us pure it costs yearly hundreds of ignominious
human sacrifices, a thing that we should rise up and brand as a lie! Who
is to guard the home of the Negro man? Can we look around Wilmington and
believe that his home does not need a stronger arsenal than ours? While
we are boiling over with sympathy for Mrs. Hartright, do we think for a
moment of the humble home of that Negro father made unhappy by Mr.
Hartright? Do we feel pity for Dan Hawes, John Maxim, Charlotte Jones?
The Negro no longer feels that the appearance of a white illegitimate
among his honestly begotten piccaninnies is an honor bestowed upon his
household. Charlotte's case was indeed a sad one. No one knows better
than I what a heavy heart she carried after her favorite child, the one
she had taken such pains to educate, and from whom she expected so much,
fell a victim to the flatteries of a Jew." "Well, must white women stop
to lament over such things?" asked Mrs. Hill. "Are we to blame for the
shortcomings of these people?" "Yes," answered the hostess. "We have
looked on unmoved and beheld our sister in black shorn of all protection
by the laws upon the State books of every Southern State, that she may
be humiliated with impunity, and we have gloried in her shame."
"Harriet Beecher Stowe's "Uncle Tom's Cabin" is no exaggeration. Simon
Legree stalks abroad unrebuked in the South, and Cassies with sad
stories of betrayal and humiliation are plentiful." "I do not think it
possible to better the black woman morally," said Mrs. Hill. "The germs
of high and lofty thought are not in her, that is certain." "Have you
ever tried to put that theory to a test?" asked Mrs. McLane sharply. "I
cant say that I have," returned Mrs. Hill slowly. "If the Negro is
morally low, we are ourselves responsible, and God will call us to
account for it. In our greed for gain we stifled every good impulse,
fostered and encouraged immorality and unholy living among our slaves by
disregarding the sacredness of the marriage relation. 'That which God
hath joined together let no man put asunder!' We have done that. We
have made a discord in the sweetest music that ever thrilled the human
heart--the music of love. I believe that there is that pathos, that true
poetry in Negro love-making that no other race possesses. When a child I
used to love to listen to the simple and yet pathetic pleading of the
Negro boy for the hand of the girl, whom to protect and defend he owned
not himself. My very heart would weep when I pictured those fond hearts
torn asunder by the slave trader. I could see the boy far away, in some
lonely cornfield in Georgia, pause, lean upon his plow and sigh for his
lost love as he listened to the cooing of the dove, while she, far away
in Tennessee or in some Virginia cornfield mournfully sang as she
dropped the yellow corn.
'Ebry time the sun goes down
I hangs ma head an' cries.'
Have we not done enough to a forgiving race? The case of Richard Holmes
is a strong proof of the Negroes' high and lofty conception of purity
and virtue, and had he been a white man, his actions would have been
applauded to the echo. My opinion is that just so long as the safeguards
around Negro women are so weak, so long as the laws upon the statute
books of Southern States brand her as a harlot, pure or impure, and keep
her outside the pale of pity and consideration, just so long will our
representatives have to resort to murder and intimidation to get to
Congress. The strength of any race rests in the purity of its women, and
when the womanhood is degraded, the life blood of a race is sapped.
Should we be disappointed under this showing because the Negro does not
vote with us? You know as well as I that the Negro's vote was at the
bottom of all this trouble. And we will always have trouble as long as
the destruction of Negro womanhood is only an indiscretion. Mrs. Fells
of Georgia shows the narrowness of her soul when she cries aloud for the
protection of white women in isolated sections of Georgia against
lustful Negroes, when she knows perfectly well that Negro girls in
Georgia need the same protection against lustful whites. A woman who is
not desirous of protecting the innocent of any race is insincere, and
should be branded as a hypocrite." "Mrs. Fells should not be blamed for
ignoring Negro women. They are all fallen creatures," said Mrs. Engle.
"That's a broad assertion for any woman to make, and there's no white
woman that believes it in her innermost soul," returned Mrs. McLane.
"The best white blood of the South flows through the veins of Negroes,
and this reveals the unmistakable weakness of a superior race." * * *
"The weakness of the men of a superior race! Be careful and make that
distinction, Marjorie," said Mrs. Bruce. "Southern white women are the
most virtuous women in the world." "That's the general boast," returned
Mrs. McLane. "And a boast that cannot be gainsaid," said Mrs. Hill.
"Visiting the iniquities of the fathers upon the children to the third
and fourth generation," quoted Mrs. McLane slowly. "Do you believe in
the truthfulness of God's word?" There was no answer. "You all are
willing to admit that the fathers have eaten sour grapes, that the sin
of unlawful inter-mixture with the alien is the fault of the men. But
can we prove that the taint of lust in the blood of the fathers has come
down through the generations to effect the male child only, and leave
the female uncontaminated? God has not so ordained it. Our men sin and
boast in it. Consorting with the women of the alien race to them is only
an indiscretion. While even to acknowledge that in the Negro man are the
elements of genuine manhood would make a Southern white women a social
exile, and make her the butt of ridicule. Does not this account for the
human sacrifices that have shocked the nation? If the Negro's life is
cheap and a frank acknowledgement of preference for him means so much to
her, and knowing that her word is judge and jury, is it not likely that
she would pursue the easiest course? The passing of laws since the war
prohibiting the intermarriage of the races is proof that the men do not
trust us as implicitly as they pretend. The lynchings and burnings that
are daily occurring in the South are intended as warnings to white women
as well as checks to Negro men. Men who constitute these mobs care no
more for virtue than so many beasts; and saying that they are composed
of best citizens does not alter my opinion. Instead of going about as
Mrs. Fells is doing, crying for more of the blood of the black men, and
vilifying defenseless black women as Mrs. Harris of that same State is
doing, we the Southern white women better be doing a little missionary
work among the men of our own race. It is time for us to rise up and let
our voices be heard against the making of our protection an excuse for
crime. Women like Mrs. Harris have done nothing, and would do nothing to
better the condition of the woman whom they vilify. Nathan said unto
David: 'Thou art the man.' This poor wretch will rise up in the judgment
and cry aloud against us as her unnatural sisters who stood upon her and
trampled her in the mud and mire. As inferior and morally low as we may
deem her, it may be more tolerable for her in the judgment than for us.
I wonder sometimes how the black woman could even look with favor upon
the man who to her has been and is a sneaking coward, as well as a
hypocrite in conduct toward the women of his own race. To us he abuses
the Negro women, makes her the subject of ridiculous cartoons, shows her
up before the world as a beast with his lips wet with kisses from her
mouth, and she suckles at her breast the child of his begetting." "We
can't afford to be too plain on that subject, Marjorie," interrupted
Mrs. Bruce. "Southern women, not being independent and self-supporting,
like our Northern sisters, cannot afford to call the men to account,
though we, some of us, see the situation just as you have presented it."
"But I for one will speak plainly," said Mrs. McLane. "Officer Bunts,
instead of being driven from the city and hung in effigy, should have
been treated differently, because in publicly acknowledging that he
preferred a Negro woman as a companion he showed that he was more of a
man than those who, like the Pharisees, rose up against him. If we as
parents should refuse to give our daughters in marriage to men who have
not clandestinely consorted with women of the alien race, how many could
hold up clean hands?"
"She who comes through environments of temptation unprotected from the
assaults of the devil to glory and immortality will have a more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory than she who has been shut in, as
it were, by the walls of a nunnery." "If we could have kept the Negro
from the Bible, kept the religion of Jesus Christ out of his heart, the
massacre of November 10th might have the effect that those who planned
it desired. But such demonstrations of barbarism will never be the means
of vanquishing a trusting people. There's my cook, Susan. Her faith is
simply astonishing. That young Negro man who was shot to death trying to
escape from the Naval Reserves who were taking him from his home and
family was her son. When my son read the news to her, she said no word,
there was no sign of distress in her face, but I could see that her
heart was deeply moved. She arose after a few minutes' silent
meditation, then went on with her work. That evening I stole up to her
room to speak a comforting word to her. I found her reading her Bible.
She took off her glasses and wiped the water from her eyes as I
entered." "I'm jes' layin' hold of God's promises," she said with a
smile. "God is our refuge an' strength in all kinds er trouble, Honey."
She threw her arms about my neck and drew me down beside her, and
pointing to a verse in the prayer of Habakkuk said: "Read it loud,
Honey. That's whar I stan'. 'Although the fig tree shall not blossom,
neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labor of the olive shall fail,
and the fields shall yield no meat.' 'The flock shall be cut off from
the fold and there shall be no herd in the stalls. Yet will I rejoice in
the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.' These are her
sentiments." "This demonstrates the strength of her faith. She will not
believe that her child was killed. In some miraculous way he must have
escaped, and will some day come to her. For the faith of the simple
Negro woman I would give a world." It was near the midnight hour when
Mrs. McLane's visitors departed, wiser women by that Thanksgiving Day
visit, we hope.