sneer. “Humph, I’d be bound for you, Jason Andrews, first on the side
of the bosses and then takin’ up for the niggers. Boys, I’ll bet he’s
a Republican!” A laugh greeted this sally. The red mounted into the
foreman’s face and made his tan seem darker.
“I’m as good a Democrat as any of you,” he said, looking around, “and you
say that again, Red Cleary, and I’ll push the words down your throat with
my fist.”
Cleary knew his man and turned the matter off. “We don’t care nothin’
about what party you vote with. We intend to stand up for our rights.
Mebbe you’ve got something to say ag’in that.”
“I’ve got something to say, but not against any man’s rights. There’s men
here that have known me and are honest, and they will say whether I’ve
acted on the square or not since I’ve been among you. But there is right
as well as rights. As for the niggers, I ain’t any friendlier to ’em than
the rest of you. But I ain’t the man to throw up a job and then howl when
somebody else gets it. If we don’t want our hoe-cake, there’s others that
do.”
The plain sense of Andrews’ remarks calmed the men, and Cleary, seeing
that his power was gone, moved away from the centre of the crowd, “I’ll
settle with you later,” he muttered, as he passed Jason.
“There ain’t any better time than now,” replied the latter, seizing his
arm and drawing him back.
“Here, here, don’t fight,” cried some one. “Go on, Cleary, there may
be something better than a fellow-workman to try your muscle on before
long.” The crowd came closer and pushed between the two men. With many
signs of reluctance, but willingly withal, Cleary allowed himself to be
hustled away. The crowd dispersed, but Jason Andrews knew that he had
only temporarily quieted the turmoil in the breasts of the men. It would
break out very soon again, he told himself. Musing thus, he took his
homeward way. As he reached the open road on the rise that led to his
cabin, he heard the report of a pistol, and a shot clipped a rock three
or four paces in front of him.
“With the compliments of Red Cleary,” said Jason, with a hard laugh. “The
coward!”
All next day, an ominous calm brooded over the little mining settlement.
The black workmen went to their labours unmolested, and the hope that
their hardships were over sprang up in the hearts of some. But there
were two men who, without being informed, knew better. These were Jason
Andrews and big Sam, and chance threw the two together. It was as the
black was returning alone from the mine after the day’s work was over.
“The strikers didn’t bother you any to-day, I noticed,” said Andrews.
Sam Bowles looked at him with suspicion, and then, being reassured by the
honest face and friendly manner, he replied: “No, not to-day, but there
ain’t no tellin’ what they’ll do to-night. I don’t like no sich sudden
change.”
“You think something is brewing, eh?”
“It looks mighty like it, I tell you.”
“Well, I believe that you’re right, and you’ll do well to keep a sharp
lookout all night.”
“I, for one, won’t sleep,” said the Negro.
“Can you shoot?” asked Jason.
The Negro chuckled, and, taking a revolver from the bosom of his blouse,
aimed at the top of a pine-tree which had been grazed by lightning, and
showed white through the fading light nearly a hundred yards away. There
was a crack, and the small white space no larger than a man’s hand was
splintered by the bullet.
“Well, there ain’t no doubt that you can shoot, and you may have to bring
that gun of yours into action before you expect. In a case like this it’s
your enemy’s life against yours.”
Andrews kept on his way, and the Negro turned up to the large
supper-room. Most of them were already there and at the meal.
“Well, boys,” began big Sam, “you’d just as well get it out of your heads
that our trouble is over here. It’s jest like I told you. I’ve been
talkin’ to the fellow that used to have my place,—he ain’t in with the
rest of the strikers,—an’ he thinks that they’re goin’ to try an’ run us
out to-night. I’d advise you, as soon as it gets dark-like, to take what
things you want out o’ yore cabins an’ bring ’em up here. It won’t do no
harm to be careful until we find out what kind of a move they’re goin’ to
make.”
The men had stopped eating, and they stared at the speaker with open
mouths. There were some incredulous eyes among the gazers, too.
“I don’t believe they’d dare come right out an’ do anything,” said one.
“Stay in yore cabin, then,” retorted the leader angrily.
There was no more demur, and as soon as night had fallen, the Negroes did
as they were bidden, though the rude, ill-furnished huts contained little
or nothing of value. Another precaution taken by the blacks was to leave
short candles burning in their dwellings so as to give the impression of
occupancy. If nothing occurred during the night, the lights would go out
of themselves and the enemy would be none the wiser as to their vigilance.
In the large assembly room the men waited in silence, some drowsing
and some smoking. Only one candle threw its dim circle of light in the
centre of the room, throwing the remainder into denser shadow. The flame
flickered and guttered. Its wavering faintness brought out the dark
strained faces in fantastic relief, and gave a weirdness to the rolling
white eyeballs and expanded eyes. Two hours passed. Suddenly, from the
window where big Sam and a colleague were stationed, came a warning
“S-sh!” Sam had heard stealthy steps in the direction of the nearest
cabin. The night was so black that he could see nothing, but he felt that
developments were about to begin. He could hear more steps. Then the
men heard a cry of triumph as the strikers threw themselves against the
cabin doors, which yielded easily. This was succeeded from all parts by
exclamations of rage and disappointment. In the assembly room the Negroes
were chuckling to themselves. Mr. “Red” Cleary had planned well, but so
had Sam Bowles.
After the second cry there was a pause, as if the men had drawn together
for consultation. Then some one approached the citadel a little way and
said: “If you niggers’ll promise to leave here to-morrow morning at
daylight, we’ll let you off this time. If you don’t, there won’t be any
of you to leave to-morrow.”
Some of the blacks were for promising, but their leader turned on them
like a tiger. “You would promise, would you, and then give them a chance
to whip you out of the section! Go, all of you that want to; but as for
me, I’ll stay here an’ fight it out with the blackguards.”
The man who had spoken from without had evidently waited for an answer.
None coming, his footsteps were heard retreating, and then, without
warning, there was a rattling fusillade. Some of the shots crashed
through the thin pine boarding, and several men were grazed. One struck
the man who stood at big Sam’s side at the window. The blood splashed
into the black leader’s face, and his companion sunk to the floor with
a groan. Sam Bowles moved from the window a moment and wiped the blood
drops from his cheek. He looked down upon the dead man as if the deed had
dazed him. Then, with a few sharp commands, he turned again to the window.
Some over-zealous fool among the strikers had fired one of the huts, and
the growing flames discovered their foes to the little garrison.
“Put out that light,” ordered big Sam. “All of you that can, get to
the two front windows—you, Toliver, an’ you, Moten, here with me. All
the rest of you lay flat on the floor. Now, as soon as that light gets
bright, pick out yore man,—don’t waste a shot, now—fire!” Six pistols
spat fire out into the night. There were cries of pain and the noise of
scurrying feet as the strikers fled pell-mell out of range.
“Now, down on the floor!” commanded Sam.
The order came not a moment too soon, for an answering volley of shots
penetrated the walls and passed harmlessly over the heads of those
within. Meanwhile, some one seeing the mistake of the burning cabin had
ordered it extinguished; but this could not be done without the workmen
being exposed to the fire from the blacks’ citadel. So there was nothing
to do save to wait until the shanty had burned down. The dry pine was
flaming brightly now, and lit up the scene with a crimson glare. The
great rocks and the rugged mountain-side, with patches of light here and
there contrasting with the deeper shadows, loomed up threatening and
terrible, and the fact that behind those boulders lay armed men thirsty
for blood made the scene no less horrible.
In his cabin, farther up the mountain side, Jason Andrews had heard
the shouts and firing, seen the glare of the burning cabin through his
window, and interpreted it aright. He rose and threw on his coat.
“Jason,” said his wife, “don’t go down there. It’s none of your business.”
“I’m not going down there, Kate,” he said; “but I know my duty and have
got to do it.”
The nearest telegraph office was a mile away from his cabin. Thither
Jason hurried. He entered, and, seizing a blank, began to write rapidly,
when he was interrupted by the voice of the operator, “It’s no use,
Andrews, the wires are cut.” The foreman stopped as if he had been
struck; then, wheeling around, he started for the door just as Crofton
came rushing in.
“Ah, Andrews, it’s you, is it?—and before me. Have you telegraphed for
troops?”
“It’s no use, Mr. Crofton, the wires are cut.”
“My God!” exclaimed the young man, “what is to be done? I did not think
they would go to this length.”
“We must reach the next station and wire from there.”
“But it’s fifteen miles away on a road where a man is liable to break his
neck at any minute.”
“I’ll risk it, but I must have a horse.”
“Take mine. He’s at the door,—God speed you.” With the word, Jason was in
the saddle and away like the wind.
“He can’t keep that pace on the bad ground,” said young Crofton, as he
turned homeward.
At the centre of strife all was still quiet. The fire had burned low, and
what remained of it cast only a dull light around. The assailants began
to prepare again for action.
“Here, some one take my place at the window,” said Sam. He left his post,
crept to the door and opened it stealthily, and, dropping on his hands
and knees, crawled out into the darkness. In less than five minutes he
was back and had resumed his station. His face was expressionless. No one
knew what he had done until a new flame shot athwart the darkness, and
at sight of it the strikers burst into a roar of rage. Another cabin was
burning, and the space about for a hundred yards was as bright as day.
In the added light, two or three bodies were distinguishable upon the
ground, showing that the shots of the blacks had told. With deep chagrin
the strikers saw that they could do nothing while the light lasted. It
was now nearly midnight, and the men were tired and cramped in their
places. They dared not move about much, for every appearance of an arm or
a leg brought a shot from the besieged. Oh for the darkness, that they
might advance and storm the stronghold! Then they could either overpower
the blacks by force of numbers, or set fire to the place that held them
and shoot them down as they tried to escape. Oh for darkness!
As if the Powers above were conspiring against the unfortunates, the
clouds, which had been gathering dark and heavy, now loosed a downpour
of rain which grew fiercer and fiercer as the thunder crashed down from
the mountains echoing and re-echoing back and forth in the valley. The
lightning tore vivid, zigzag gashes in the inky sky. The fury of the
storm burst suddenly, and before the blacks could realise what was
happening, the torrent had beaten the fire down, and the way between them
and their enemies lay in darkness. The strikers gave a cheer that rose
even over the thunder.
* * * * *
As the young manager had said, the road over which Jason had to travel
was a terrible one. It was rough, uneven, and treacherous to the step
even in the light of day. But the brave man urged his horse on at the
best possible speed. When he was half-way to his destination, a sudden
drop in the road threw the horse and he went over the animal’s head.
He felt a sharp pain in his arm, and he turned sick and dizzy, but,
scrambling to his feet, he mounted, seized the reins in one hand, and was
away again. It was half-past twelve when he staggered into the telegraph
office. “Wire—quick!” he gasped. The operator who had been awakened from
a nap by the clatter of the horse’s hoofs, rubbed his eyes and seized a
pencil and blank.
“Troops at once—for God’s sake—troops at once—Crofton’s mine riot—murder
being done!” and then, his mission being over, nature refused longer to
resist the strain and Jason Andrews swooned.
His telegram had been received at Wheeling, and another ordering the
instant despatch of the nearest militia, who had been commanded to
sleep in their armories in anticipation of some such trouble, before a
physician had been secured for Andrews. His arm was set and he was put to
bed. But, loaded on flat-cars and whatever else came handy, the troops
were on their way to the scene of action.
While this was going on, the Negroes had grown disheartened. The light
which had disclosed to them their enemy had been extinguished, and under
cover of the darkness and storm they knew their assailants would again
advance. Every flash of lightning showed them the men standing boldly out
from their shelter.
Big Sam turned to his comrades. “Never say die, boys,” he said. “We’ve
got jest one more chance to scatter ’em. If we can’t do it, it’s hand to
hand with twice our number. Some of you lay down on the floor here with
your faces jest as clost to the door as you can. Now some more of you
kneel jest above. Now above them some of you bend, while the rest stand
up. Pack that door full of gun muzzles while I watch things outside.”
The men did as he directed, and he was silent for a while. Then he spoke
again softly: “Now they’re comin’. When I say ‘Ready!’ open the door, and
as soon as a flash of lightning shows you where they are, let them have
it.”
They waited breathlessly.
“Now, ready!”
The door was opened, and a moment thereafter the glare of the lightning
was followed by another flash from the doorway. Groans, shrieks, and
curses rang out as the assailants scampered helter-skelter back to their
friendly rocks, leaving more of their dead upon the ground behind them.
“That was it,” said Sam. “That will keep them in check for a while. If we
can hold ’em off until daybreak, we are safe.”
The strikers were now angry and sore and wet through. Some of them were
wounded. “Red” Cleary himself had a bullet through his shoulder. But
his spirits were not daunted, although six of his men lay dead upon the
ground. A long consultation followed the last unsuccessful assault. At
last Cleary said: “Well, it won’t do any good to stand here talkin’. It’s
gettin’ late, an’ if we don’t drive ’em out to-night, it’s all up with
us an’ we’d jest as well be lookin’ out fur other diggin’s. We’ve got
to crawl up as near as we can an’ then rush ’em. It’s the only way, an’
what we ought to done at first. Get down on your knees. Never mind the
mud—better have it under you than over you.” The men sank down, and went
creeping forward like a swarm of great ponderous vermin. They had not
gone ten paces when some one said, “Tsch! what is that?” They stopped
where they were. A sound came to their ears. It was the laboured puffing
of a locomotive as it tugged up the incline that led to the settlement.
Then it stopped. Within the room they had heard it, too, and there was as
great suspense as without.
With his ear close to the ground, “Red” Cleary heard the tramp of
marching men, and he shook with fear. His fright was communicated to
the others, and with one accord they began creeping back to their
hiding-places. Then, with a note that was like the voice of God to the
besieged, through the thunder and rain, a fife took up the strains of
“Yankee Doodle” accompanied by the tum-tum of a sodden drum. This time a
cheer went up from within the room,—a cheer that directed the steps of
the oncoming militia.
“It’s all up!” cried Cleary, and, emptying his pistol at the wood fort,
he turned and fled. His comrades followed suit. A bullet pierced Sam
Bowles’s wrist. But he did not mind it. He was delirious with joy. The
militia advanced and the siege was lifted. Out into the storm rushed
the happy blacks to welcome and help quarter their saviours. Some of the
Negroes were wounded, and one dead, killed at the first fire. Tired as
the men were, they could not sleep, and morning found them still about
their fires talking over the night’s events. It found also many of the
strikers missing besides those who lay stark on the hillside.
For the next few days the militia took charge of affairs. Some of the
strikers availed themselves of the Croftons’ clemency, and went back to
work along with the blacks; others moved away.
When Jason Andrews was well enough to be moved, he came back. The
Croftons had already told of his heroism, and he was the admiration of
white and black alike. He has general charge now of all the Crofton
mines, and his assistant and stanch friend is big Sam.
THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN
THE DELIBERATION OF MR. DUNKIN
Miltonville had just risen to the dignity of being a school town. Now,
to the uninitiated and unconcerned reader this may appear to be the most
unimportant statement in the world; but one who knows Miltonville, and
realises all the facts in the case, will see that the simple remark is
really fraught with mighty import.
When for two years a growing village has had to crush its municipal pride
and send its knowledge-seeking youth to a rival town two miles away,
when that rival has boasted and vaunted its superiority, when a listless
school-board has been unsuccessfully prodded, month after month, then the
final decision in favour of the institution and the renting of a room in
which to establish it is no small matter. And now Fox Run, with its most
plebeian name but arrogantly aristocratic community, could no longer look
down upon Miltonville.
The coloured population of this town was sufficiently large and
influential to merit their having a member on the school-board. But Mr.
Dunkin, the incumbent, had found no employment for his energies until
within the last two months, when he had suddenly entered the school fight
with unwonted zest. Now it was an assured thing, and on Monday Miss
Callena Johnson was to start the fountain of knowledge a-going. This in
itself was enough to set the community in a commotion.
Much had been heard of Miss Callena before she had been selected as the
guiding genius of the new venture. She had even visited Fox Run, which
prided itself greatly on the event. Flattering rumours were afloat in
regard to her beauty and brilliancy. She was from Lexington. What further
recommendation as to her personal charms did she need? She was to come in
on Saturday evening, and as the railroad had not deigned to come nearer
to Miltonville than Fox Run station,—another thorn in the side of the
Miltonvillians,—Mr. Dunkin, as the important official in the affair, was
delegated to go and bring the fair one into her kingdom.
Now, Mr. Dunkin was a man of deliberation. He prided himself upon that.
He did nothing in a hurry. Nothing came from him without due forethought.
So, in this case, before going for Miss Callena, he visited Mr. Alonzo
Taft. Who was Mr. Taft? Of course you have never been to Miltonville or
you would never have asked that question. Mr. Alonzo Taft was valet to
Major Richardson, who lived in the great house on the hill overlooking
the town. He not only held this distinguished position in that
aristocratic household, but he was the black beau ideal and social mentor
for all the town.
Him, then, did Mr. Dunkin seek, and delivered himself as follows: “Mistah
Tat’, you reco’nise de dooty dat is laid upon me by bein’ a membah of
de school-boa’d. I has got to go to de depot aftah Miss Callena Johnson
to-morrow aftahnoon. Now, Mistah Taf’, I is a delibut man myse’f. I is
mighty keerful what I does an’ how I does it. As you know, I ain’t no
man fu’ society, an’ conserkently I is not convusant wid some of de
manipulations of comp’ny. So I t’ought I’d come an’ ax yo’ advice about
sev’al t’ings,—what to waih, an’ which side o’ de wagon to have Miss
Callena on, an’ how to he’p huh in, an’ so fofe.”
“Why, of co’se, Mr. Dunkin,” said the elegant Alonzo, “I shell be happy
to administah any instructions to you dat lies within my powah.”
Mr. Taft was a perfect second edition of Major Richardson bound in black
hide.
“But,” he went on in a tone of dignified banter, “we shell have to keep
a eye on you prosp’ous bachelors. You may be castin’ sheep-eyes at Miss
Callena.”
“Dat ’u’d be mo’ nachul an’ fittener in a young man lak you,” said Mr.
Dunkin, deliberately.
“Oh, I has been located in my affections too long to lif’ anchor now.”
“You don’ say,” said the “prosp’ous bachelor,” casting a quick glance at
the speaker.
“Yes, indeed, suh.”
So they chatted on, and in the course of time the deliberate Dunkin got
such information as he wished, and departed in the happy consciousness
that on the morrow he should do the proper and only the proper thing.
After he was gone, Alonzo Taft rubbed his chin and mused: “I wonder what
ol’ man Dunkin’s got in his head. Dey say he’s too slow an’ thinks too
long evah to git married. But you watch dem thinkin’ people when dey do
make up deir minds.”
On the morrow, when Mr. Dunkin went forth, he outshone Solomon in all
his glory. When he came back, the eyes of all the town saw Miss Callena
Johnson, beribboned and smiling, sitting on his right and chatting
away vivaciously. As to her looks, the half had not been told. As to
her manners, those smiles and head-tossings gave promise of unheard-of
graces, and the hearts of all Miltonville throbbed as one.
Alonzo Taft was lounging carelessly on the corner as the teacher and
her escort passed along. He raised his hat to them with that sweeping,
graceful gesture which was known to but two men in that vicinity, himself
and Major Richardson. After some hesitation as to which hand should
retain the reins, Mr. Dunkin returned the salute.
The next day being Sunday, and universal calling-day in Miltonville, Eli
Thompson’s house, where Miss Callena had taken up her abode, was filled
with guests. All the beaux in town were there, resplendent in their
Sunday best. Many a damsel sat alone that afternoon whose front room no
Sunday before had seen untenanted. Mr. Taft was there, and also one who
came early and stayed late,—Mr. Dunkin. The younger men thought that he
was rather overplaying his rôle of school trustee. He was entirely too
conscientious as to his duty to Miss Callena. What the young beaux wanted
to know was whether it was entirely in his official position that he sat
so long with Miss Callena that first Sabbath.
On Monday morning the school opened with great _éclat_. There were
exercises. The trustee was called upon to make a speech, and, as
speech-making is the birthright of his race, acquitted himself with
credit. The teacher was seen to smile at him as he sat down.
Now, under ordinary circumstances a smile is a small thing. It is given,
taken, and forgotten all in a moment. At other times it is the keynote
to the tragedy or comedy of a life. Miss Callena’s smile was like an
electric spark setting fire to a whole train of combustibles. Those who
saw it marvelled and told their neighbours, and their neighbours asked
them what it meant. Before night, that smile and all the import it might
carry was the town’s talk.
Alonzo Taft had seen it. Unlike the others, he said nothing to his
neighbours. He questioned himself only. To him that smile meant
familiarity, good-fellowship, and a thorough mutual understanding. He
looked into the dark, dancing eyes of Miss Callena, and in spite of
his statement of a few days ago that he had been located too long to
“lif’ anchor,” he felt a pang at his heart that was like the first
stab of jealousy. So he was deeply interested that evening when Maria,
his fellow-servant, told him that Mr. Dunkin was waiting to see him.
He hurried through with his work, even leaving a speck of lint on the
major’s coat,—an unprecedented thing,—and hastened down to his guest.
A look of great seriousness and determination was fixed upon the features
of the “prosp’ous bachelor” as his host made his appearance and invited
him up to his room.
Mr. Dunkin was well seated and had his pipe going before he began:
“Mistah Taf’, I allus has ’lowed dat you was a sensible young man an’ a
pu’son of mo’ dan o’dina’y intel’gence.”