THE PROGRESSIVES AND THE REACTIONARIES
It is not commonly known by the white people at large that a great
number of colored people are against Mr. Washington. Being an educator
and philanthropist, it is hard to conceive any reason why they should be
opposed to him, but the fact remains that they are.
There are two distinct factions of the negro race, who might be classed
as Progressives and Reactionaries, somewhat like the politicians. The
Progressives, led by Booker T. Washington and with industrial education
as the material idea, are good, active citizens; while the other class
distinctly reactionary in every way, contend for more equal rights,
privileges, and protection, which is all very logical, indeed, but they
do not substantiate their demands with any concrete policies; depending
largely on loud demands, and are too much given to the condemnation of
the entire white race for the depredations of a few.
It is true, very true indeed, that the American negro does not receive
all he is entitled to under the constitution. Volumes could be filled
with the many injustices he has to suffer, and which are not right
before God and man; yet, when it is considered that other races in other
countries, are persecuted even more than the negro is in parts of the
United States, there should be no reason why the American negro allow
obvious prejudice to prevent his taking advantage of opportunities that
surround him.
I have been called a "radical," perhaps I am, but for years I have felt
constrained to deplore the negligence of the colored race in America, in
not seizing the opportunity for monopolizing more of the many million
acres of rich farm lands in the great northwest, where immigrants from
the old world own many of acres of rich farm lands; while the millions
of blacks, only a few hundred miles away, are as oblivious to it all as
the heathen of Africa are to civilization.
In Iowa, for instance, where the number of farms total around two
hundred and ten thousand, and include the richest land in the world,
only thirty-seven are owned and operated by negroes, while South Dakota,
Wisconsin, Minnesota, and North Dakota have many less. I would quote
these facts to my father-in-law until I was darker in the face than I
naturally am. He could offer no counter argument to them, but continued
to vituperate the sins of the white people. He was a member in good
standing of the reactionary faction of the negro race, the larger part
of which are African M.E. ministers.
Since Booker T. Washington came into prominence they have held back and
done what they could to impede and criticize his work, and cast little
stones in his path of progress, while most of the younger members of the
ministry are heart and soul in accord with him and are helping all they
can. The older members are almost to a unit, with some exceptions, of
course, against him and his industrial educational ideas.
A few years ago a professor in a colored university in Georgia wrote a
book which had a tremendous sale. He claimed in his book that the public
had become so over-enthused regarding Booker T. and industrial
education, that the colored schools for literary training were almost
forgotten, and, of course, were severely handicapped by a lack of funds.
His was not criticism, but was intended to call attention of the public
to the number of colored schools in dire need of funds, which on account
of race prejudice in the south, must teach classics. This was true,
although industrial education was the first means of lifting the
ignorant masses into a state of good citizenship. Immediately following
the publication of the volume referred to, thousands of anti-Booker T.'s
proceeded to place the writer as representing their cause and formed all
kinds of clubs in his honor, or gave their clubs his name. They
pretended to feel and to have everyone else feel, that they had at last
found a man who would lead them against Booker T. and industrial
education.
They made a lot of noise for a while, which soon died out, however, as
the author of the book was far too broad minded and intelligent in every
way, to be a party to such a theory, much less, to lead a lot of
reckless people, who never had and never would do anything for the
uplifting of their race.
The Reverend and I could not in any way agree. He was so bitter against
industrial education and the educator's name, that he lost all composure
in trying to dodge the issue in our argument, and found himself up
against a brick wall in attempting to belittle Mr. Washington's work.
Most of the trouble with the elder was, that he was not an intelligent
man, never read anything but negro papers, and was interested only in
negro questions. He was born in Arkansas, but maintained false ideas
about himself. He never admitted to having been born a slave, but he was
nearly sixty years of age, and sixty years ago a negro born in Arkansas
would have been born in slavery, unless his parents had purchased
themselves. If this had been the case, as vain as he was, I felt sure he
would have had much to say about it. He must have been born a slave, but
of course had been young when freed. He had lived in Springfield,
Missouri, after leaving Arkansas, and later moving to Iowa, where, at
the age of twenty-seven years, he was ordained a minister and started to
preach, which he had continued for thirty years or more. He never had
any theological training. This was told me by my wife, and she added
despairingly:
"Poor papa! He is just ignorant and hard-headed, and all his life has
been associated with hard-headed negro preachers. He reads nothing but
radical negro papers and wants everybody to regard him as being a
brilliant man, and you might as well try to reason with two trees, or a
brick wall, as to try to reason with him or Ethel. I'm so sorry papa is
so ignorant. Mama has always tried to get him to study, but he would
never do it. That's all."
We went up to the claims, taking the elder along. My sister had married
and her husband was making hay on the claims.
I might have been more patient with the Reverend, if he had not been so
full of pretense, when being plain and truthful would have been so much
better and easier. I had quit talking to him about anything serious or
anything that interested me, but would sit and listen to him talk of the
big preachers, and the bishops, and the great negroes who had died years
before. He seemed fond of talking of what they had done in the past and
what more could be done in the future, if the white people were not so
strongly banded against them. After this, his conversation would turn to
pure gossip, such as women might indulge in. He talked about the women
belonging to the churches of his district, whether they were living
right or wrong, and could tell very funny stories about them.
In Dakota, like most parts of the west, people who have any money at
all, carry no cash in the pocket, but bank their money and use checks.
The people of the east and south, that is, the common people, seldom
have a checking account, and, with the masses of the negroes, no account
at all. During the summer Orlean had sent her father my checks with
which to make purchases. The Reverend told me he checked altogether, but
my wife had told me her father's ambition had always been to have a
checking account, but had not been able to do so. I had to laugh over
this, for it was no distinction whatever. We discussed the banking
business and the elder tried to tell me that if a national bank went
broke, the government paid all the depositors, while if it was a state
bank, the depositors lost. As this was so far from correct, I explained
the laws that governed national banks and state banks alike, as regards
the depositors, in the event of insolvency. I did not mean to bring out
such a storm but he flew into an accusation, exclaiming excitedly:
"That's just the way you are! You must have everything your way! I never
saw such a contrary man! You won't believe anything!"
"But, Reverend," I remonstrated. "I have no 'way' in this. What I have
quoted you is simply the law, the law governing national and state bank
deposits, that you can read up on yourself, just the same as I have
done. If I am wrong, I very humbly beg your pardon."
The poor old man was so chagrined he seemed hardly to know what to do,
though this was but one of many awkward situations due to his ignorance
of the most simple business matters. Another time he was trying to
listen intelligently to a conversation relating to the development of
the northwest, when I had occasion to speak of Jim Hill. Seeing he did
not look enlightened, I repeated, this time referring to him as James J.
Hill, of the Great Northern, and inquired if he had not heard of the
pioneer builder.
"No, I never heard of him," he answered.
"Never heard of James J. Hill?" I exclaimed, in surprise.
"Why should I have heard of him," he said, answering my exclamation
calmly.
"O, no reason at all," I concluded, and remained silent, but my face
must have expressed my disgust at his ignorance, and he a public man for
thirty years.
[Illustration: Ernest Nicholson takes a hand. (Page 186.)]
After this conversation I forced myself to remain quiet and listen to
common gossip. Instead of being pleased to see us happy and Orlean
contented, he would, whenever alone with her, discourage her in every
way he could, sighing for sympathy, praising Claves and telling her how
much he was doing for Ethel, and how much she, Orlean, was sacrificing
for me.
The contest trial occurred while he was with us, and cost, to start
with, an attorney's fee of fifty dollars, in addition to witnesses'
expenses. I had bought a house in Megory and we moved it onto Orlean's
claim. The Reverend helped with the moving, but he was so discouraging
to have around. He dug up all the skeletons I left buried in M--pls and
bared them to view, in deceitful ways.
We had decided not to visit Chicago that winter. The crop was fair, but
prices were low on oats and corn, and my crops consisted mostly of those
cereals. I tried to explain this to the Reverend when he talked of what
we would have, Christmas, in Chicago.
"Now, don't let that worry you, my boy," he would say breezily. "I'll
attend to that! I'll attend to that!"
"Attend to what?" I asked.
"Why, I'll send both of you a ticket."
"O, really, Reverend, I thank you ever so much, but I could not think of
accepting it, and you must not urge it. We are not coming to Chicago,
and I wish you would not talk of it so much with Orlean," I would almost
plead with him. "She is a good girl and we are happy together. She wants
to help me, but she's only a weak woman, and being so far away from
colored people, she will naturally feel lonesome and want to visit
home."
He paid no more attention to me than if I had never spoken. In fact, he
talked more about Chicago than ever, saying a dozen times a day:
"Yes, children, I'll send you the money."
I finally became angry and told him I would not, under any circumstances
whatever, accept such charity, and that what my money was invested in,
represented a value of more than thirty thousand dollars, and how could
I be expected to condescend to accept charity from him.
He had told me once that he never had as much as two hundred dollars at
one time in his life. I did not want a row, but as far as I was
concerned, I did not want anything from him, for I felt that he would
throw it up to me the rest of his life. I was convinced that he was a
vain creature, out for a show, and I fairly despised him for it.
At last he went home and Orlean and I got down to business, moving more
of our goods onto the claim, and spending about one-third of the time
there. We intended moving everything as soon as the corn was gathered.
As Christmas drew near, her folks wrote they were looking for her to
come home, the Reverend having told them that she was coming, and that
he was going to send her the money for her to come. Her mother wrote
about it in letter, saying she didn't think it was right. Just before
Christmas, she wrote that maybe if she wrote Cousin Sam he would send
her the money. Cousin Sam was a porter in a down town saloon. I felt so
mortified that I swore I would never again have anything to do with her
family. They never regarded my feelings nor our relations in the least,
but wrote a letter every few days about who was coming to the house to
see Orlean Christmas, of who was going to have her at their homes for
dinner when she came home, until the poor girl, with a child on the way,
was as helpless as a baby, trying to be honest with all concerned. It
had never been her lot to take the defensive.
My sister came down from her claim and took Orlean home with her. While
she was in Tipp county a letter came from her father for her, and
thinking it might be a matter needing immediate attention, I opened it
and found a money order for eighteen dollars, sent from Cairo, with
instructions when to start, and he would be home to meet her when she
arrived, suggesting that I could come later.
I was about the maddest man in Megory when I was through reading the
letter, fairly flying to the post office, enclosing the money order and
all, with a curt little note telling what I had done; that Orlean was
out on her claim and would be home in a few days, but that we were not
coming to Chicago. I would have liked to tell him that I was running my
own house, but did not do so. I was hauling shelled corn to a feeder in
town, when Orlean came. She was driving a black horse, hitched to a
little buggy I had purchased for her, and I met her on the road. I got
out and kissed her fondly, then told what I had done. My love for her
had been growing. She had been gone a week and I was so glad to see her
and have her back with me. I took the corn on into town and when I
returned home she had cleaned up the house, prepared a nice supper and
had killed a chicken for the next day, which was Christmas. She then
confessed that she had written her father that he could send the money.
"Now, dear," she said, as though a little frightened, "I'm so sorry, for
I know papa's going to make a big row."
And he did, fairly burned the mail with scorching letters denouncing my
action and threatening what he was liable to do about it, which was to
come out and attend to me. I judged he did not get much sympathy,
however, for a little while after Orlean had written him he cooled down
and wrote that whatever Orlean and I agreed on was all right with him,
though I knew nothing of what her letter contained.
The holidays passed without further event, excepting a letter from Mrs.
Ewis, to my wife, in which she said she was glad that she had stayed in
Dakota and stuck by her husband. The letter seemed a little strange,
though I thought nothing of it at the time. A few months later I was to
know what it meant, which was more than I could then have dreamed of. We
were a lone colored couple, in a country miles from any of our kind,
honest, hopeful and happy; we had no warning, nor if we had, would we
have believed. Why, indeed, should any young couple feel that some
person, especially one near and dear, should be planning to put asunder
what God had joined together?
It was now the last of February and we expected our first-born in
March. My wife had grown exceedingly fretful. Grandma was with us,
having made proof on her homestead. Orlean kept worrying and wanting to
go to her claim, talking so much about it, that I finally talked with
some neighbor friends and they advised that it would be better to take
her to the homestead, for if she continued to fret so much over wanting
to be there, when the child was born, it might be injured in some way.
When the weather became favorable, I wrapped her and grandma up
comfortably, and sent them to the claim in the spring wagon, while I
followed with a load of furniture, making the trip in a day and a half.
We had close neighbors who said they would look after her while I went
back after the stock. A lumber yard was selling out in Kirk, and I
bought the coal shed, which was strongly built, being good for barns and
granaries. Cutting it into two parts, I loaded one part onto two wagons
and started the sixty miles to the claim. A thaw set in about the time I
had the building as far as my homestead south of Megory. I decided to
leave it there and tear down my old buildings and move them, instead. I
received a letter from Orlean saying they were getting along nicely,
excepting that the stove smoked considerably; and for me to be very
careful with Red and not let him kick me. Red was a mule I had bought
the summer before and was a holy terror for kicking.
My sister arrived that night from a visit to Kansas, and on hearing from
Orlean that she was all right, I sent my sister on to her claim, and
hiring more men, moved the balance of the building onto the old farm,
tore down the old buildings, loaded them onto wagons, and finally got
started again for Tipp county. That was on Saturday. The wind blew a
gale, making me feel lonely and far from home. Sunday morning I started
early out of Colone planning to get home that night, but the front axle
broke and by the time we got another it was growing late. We started
again and traveled about two miles, when the tongue broke, and by the
time that was mended it was late in the afternoon. About six o'clock we
pulled into Victor, tired and weary. The next day, when about five miles
from home, we met one of the neighbors, who informed me that he had
tried to get me over the phone all along the way; that my wife had been
awfully sick and that the baby had been born, dead. It struck me like a
hammer, and noting my frightened look, he spoke up quickly:
"But she's all right now. She had two doctors and didn't lack for
attention."
On the way home I was so nervous that I could hardly wait for the horses
to get there. I would not have been away at this time for anything in
the world. I knew Orlean would forgive me, but we had not told her
father. Orlean had told her mother and thought she would tell him. He
made so much ado about everything, we hoped to avoid the tire of his
burdensome letters, but now, with the baby born during my absence, and
it dead, when we had so many plans for its future. It was to have been
the first colored child born on the Little Crow, and we thought we were
going to make history.
When I got to the claim I was weak in every way. My wife seemed none the
worse, but my emotions were intense when I saw the little dead boy. Poor
little fellow! As he lay stiff and cold I could see the image of myself
in his features. My wife noticed my look and said:
"It is just like you, dear!"
That night we buried the baby on the west side of the draw. It should
have been on the east, where the only trees in the township, four
spreading willows, cast their shadows.
"Well, dear, we have each other," I comforted her as she cried.
Between sobs she tried to tell me how she had prayed for it to live, and
since it had looked so much like me, she thought her heart would break.
When the child was born they had sent a telegram to her father which
read:
"Baby born dead. Am well."
This was his first knowledge of it. We received a telegram that night
that he was on the way and the next day he arrived, bringing Ethel with
him. When he got out of the livery rig that brought them I could see
Satan in his face. A chance had come to him at last. It seemed to say:
"Oh, now I'll fix you. Away when the child was born, eh?"
His very expression seemed jubilant. He had longed for some chance to
get me and now it had arrived. He did not speak to me, but bounded into
the room where my wife was, and she must have read the same thing in his
expression, for, as he talked about it later, I learned the first thing
she said was:
"Now, papa. You must not abuse Oscar. He loves me and is kind and doing
the best he can, but he is all tied up with debt."
He would tell this every few hours but I could see the evil of his heart
in the expression of his eyes, leering at me, with hatred and malice in
every look. He and Ethel turned loose in about an hour. From that time
on, it was the same as being in the house with two human devils. They
nearly raised the roof with their quarreling. Of the two, the Reverend
was the worst, for he was cunning and deceitful, pretending in one
sentence to love, and in the next taking a thrust at my emotions and
home. I shall never forget his evil eyes.
Ethel would cry out in her ringing voice:
"You're practical! You're practical! You and your Booker T. Washington
ideas!"
Then she would tear into a string of abusive words. One day, after the
doctor had been to the house, he called me aside and said:
"Oscar, your wife is physically well enough, but is mentally sick.
Something should be done so that she may be more quiet."
"Is she quite out of danger?" I asked.
He replied that she was. That night I told my wife of our conversation
and the next day I left for Megory county.