The Colonel's Repentance.
The riotous excitement was slowly abating in the old city. The woods
were full of panic-stricken, starving colored people, and trains were
leaving the city laden with those who had means to get away. The leading
whites, feeling both alarmed at and ashamed of the havoc and misery
their ambition had wrought, had begun to send men into the woods to
carry food to the starving, and induce them to return to the city. But
so thoroughly frightened were these poor refugees that the sight of
white faces made them run away from the very food offered them. The
ambassadors came back to the city disgusted, and dispatched colored men,
who were more successful. It was the evening of the 15th of November.
Mr. Julius Kahn, Eastern North Carolina's representative of the Life
Insurance Company of Virginia, sat at his desk in his office on Front
street. This company, which had been giving, for a small weekly payment,
quite a substantial and satisfactory death benefit, and consequently
doing quite an enormous business among the poorer classes of the colored
people, were among the heaviest sufferers from the massacre, for some of
the collectors had been pressed into the service of the rioters to shoot
down, and intimidate their very means of support. As Mr. Kahn sat there,
he saw nothing but absolute ruin staring him in the face. "Well, what
news?" he asked a man who stalked in, and sank heavily into a chair. The
man threw his book upon the desk before him, shrugged his shoulders and
sighed wearily. "It's useless," he answered finally. "I give it up. I
haven't succeeded in getting within ten yards of a nigger woman to-day.
If I went in at the front door, every occupant in a house would bolt out
at the back one, and run for dear life. They will listen to no overtures
of friendship. Our very faces fill them with abject terror. We had just
as well throw up the insurance business and quit, as far as Wilmington
is concerned. God's curse on the men who are responsible for this
blight upon the good name of this city. One woman opened her door,
cursed me, threw her book at me, and slammed the door in my face; and I
can't blame her, for she saw and recognized me among the mob who shot
her husband down right in her gate. And God knows I did not want to be
among them, but was compelled to. And they say that old devil, after
usurping the Mayoralty of the city, and killing and driving from their
homes so many colored people, has softened, and has sent out to induce
the wretches to return," said Mr. Kahn after a long pause. "Yes,"
returned the agent, "but that won't help us. They say they've lost their
confidence in white people. Why, you have no idea what a wretched state
of things I've come across. The last five days' experience has made
raving maniacs out of some of the niggers. The papers have announced the
giving out of rations at the City Hall to-morrow, but I doubt if many
will go to get them." Mr. Kahn leaned over, rested his elbows upon the
desk, and slowly ran his fingers through his hair. "Some of our men left
the city before they would be mixed up in this affair, and I wish now
that I had done the same. But," he continued slowly, "we may just as
well wait until all excitement is at an end before we pull up stakes.
Other blacks will doubtless pour in to fill the places of those that are
going, and we may be enabled to build up business." "You can remain and
wait, Mr. Kahn," answered the agent rising. "This accursed town can no
longer hold me. I leave to-night for Richmond, for I can no longer look
into the faces of the people whom I have had a hand in killing and
terrorizing. Good bye, Mr. Kahn," and the collector was gone.
* * * * *
"Everybody git in line an' pass one ba one before ther Mair an' git yer
permits; fer yer can't git rations thoughten 'um," shouted a policeman
to a crowd of hungry citizens who stood upon the steps of the City Hall.
"Git in thur ole Aunty an' wait yer turn!" to an old lady, who started
to leisurely climb the steps. The Mayor sat at his desk, which had been
placed just behind the railing in the court room, and mildly lectured
each applicant as he or she came up. "This state of affairs is terrible,
but it's your own fault. White people were born to rule, and you to
obey. We liberated you and we can re-enslave you. Freedom and Yankee
advice have ruined a good many of you. What's your name, old Aunty?" he
asked an old woman who came limping up. "Maria Tapp'n, marster,"
answered the old woman courtesing. "That's right, you haven't lost your
manners," said the Mayor with a smile, writing out for her an order for
a double portion. "Emulate these old mammies and uncles, who know their
places, and you will have no trouble. Next!" "Ef ther's eny who needs er
double po'tion hits ther widders an' orphans," said a policeman gently,
pushing a little woman in black before the Mayor's desk. "Whose widow
are you?" asked the Mayor. "Was your husband killed in the
riots?--resisting arrest, I suppose." "This is ther widder of Dan
Wright," answered the policeman; "an' ef Wilmin'ton had er had a hundred
niggers like that, we uns would er had er diff'ant tale ter tell. He was
ded game." "Dan Wright," repeated the Mayor slowly. "He's ther darkey
that drawed er bead on an' defied we uns ter the las'," said the
policeman pushing the woman away, and pushing another up to the desk.
But the Mayor neither answered nor looked up. One by one they continued
to come up to receive their orders and pass out; but the executive
looked them no more in the face, nor essayed to speak. The crowd slowly
dwindled away until the last applicant had passed out. The Mayor laid
his pen upon the desk before him, leaned back in his chair, raised his
feet upon the desk, and fell into a reverie. The doings of the past few
days came back to his mind in all their shocking significance. The
curses, the groans, the agonizing cries of the bereaved and the dying
sounded a hundred-fold more voluminous and heart-rending. Then the
bloody form of Dan Wright appeared with hands uplifted, eyes staring at
his murderers, the blood streaming from a hundred wounds.
The Mayor had seen hard service in war, was one of the immortal few who,
under the leadership of Pickett, made that gallant but futile charge at
Gettysburg, to be driven back for a third time, crushed, mangled and
defeated. He doubtless assisted in digging the trenches into which those
ghastly remnants that told of the cannon's awful work were thrown. That
was war, and such sights had never so affected the veteran as the vision
now before him.
"Avaunt! avaunt! Quit my sight!
Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation
In those eyes that thou dost glare with!"
The Mayor started up, opened his eyes. Uncle Guy stood before him. "I
jes' taut I'd drap in, Kurnel, but didn't speck ter fin' yer sleep,"
said he, wincing under the Mayor's abstracted gaze. "Oh, I don' want
nut'n; don' make er scratch on dat paper. I ain't beggin'," he
exclaimed, as the Mayor, recovering, reached for his pen. "That's so
Guy; you needn't be a beggar as long as the white people own a crust,"
he answered, settling back in his chair again. "Well, what are Negroes
saying about the uprising, Guy?" The old man shrugged his shoulders, and
shook his index finger at the Mayor. "Le' me tell yo', Kurnel, you na
Wilmin'ton rich bocra, dun throw yo' number an' los'; hear me? Ef
enybody gone tell me dat dese people I bin raise wid, who bin called de
bes' bocra in de worl' would go an' kick up all dis ere devil, I'd er
tole um No." The old man straightened up, pointed skyward. "Lowd deliver
yunna bocra when yer call befo' de bar. Dese niggers ain't su'prise at
po' white trash; dey do enyting. But yunna fus class white fo'ks--"
"Well, Guy," broke in the Mayor, "it was hard for us to resort to such,
but it was in self-defense." "Self-defense! self-defense!" repeated the
old man. "When po' nigger han bin tie, an' yunna bocra got
eberyt'ing--gun, cannon an' all de am-nition, an' beside dat, de town
full wid strange trash frum all ober de country to crush dem? Some er
dese men I sees shootin' an' killin', dars men an' umen livin' er my
race dat nussed an' tuk keer er dem w'en dey bin little. God er mighty
gwinter pay yunna well fer yer work, Kurnel, an' de gost er dem po'
murdered creeters gwine ter haunt yo' in yer sleep. God don' lub ugly,
an' yunna can't prosper." The old man concluded with a low bow, strode
out, and left the Mayor alone with his thoughts.