_Poor Fellow._
The whole of the night following the Gus Martin tragedy was spent by
Ensal in sorrowful meditation, as he restlessly walked to and fro in his
room.
The Rev. Percy G. Marshall had been an outspoken friend of the Negro.
The white South, Ensal felt, had at one time seemed to fetter its
pulpit, not allowing it much latitude in dealing with great moral
questions that chanced to have an accompanying political aspect. Ensal
had looked on with profound admiration as the young Rev. Mr. Marshall,
by precept and by example, boldly led the way for an enlarged scope for
the white clergy of the South.
Had the pulpit in question done its full duty in preaching against the
institution of Slavery, it might have been eradicated by peaceful means,
and the Civil War averted, was Ensal's firm conviction, and he further
felt that the future well-being of the South and the happy adjustment of
the relations of the races was largely dependent upon the extent to
which the white preachers taught the brotherhood of man and invoked the
application of the Golden Rule to all pending problems.
In all this work the Rev. Percy G. Marshall was a pioneer spirit, and by
degrees the white pulpit of the South was growing more and more
aggressive and emphatic. And now it was the irony of fate that this
young minister should be slain by a member of the race for which he had
imperilled his own standing among the whites.
In addition to his grief over the tragic death of the Rev. Mr. Marshall,
there was another phase of the Gus Martin affair that gave Ensal deep
concern. Gus was the child of the new philosophy that was taking hold of
the race, which was as follows:
Faith in the general government was at a low ebb. Concerted action of a
warlike nature on the part of the race was regarded as being out of the
question, if for no other reason than that the Negro leaders were
practically a unit in pronouncing such a course one of stupendous folly
under the existing unequal conditions. Word was therefore being passed
down the line that every man was to act for himself, that each
individual was himself to resent the injustices and indignities
perpetrated upon him, and that each man whose life was threatened in a
lawless way could help the cause of the race by killing as many as
possible of the lawless band, it being contended that the adding of the
element of danger to mob life would make many less inclined to
lawlessness.
Ensal saw where such a course would lead the race. Negroes were
ordinarily approached in the name of the law and in that name disarmed.
When the law had thus rendered them helpless, the mob would form and be
presented with the object of its wrath bound hand and foot.
Resistance, then, to be effective would have to be offered to the
officers of the law. The utter pitiableness of the lone Negro being sent
by this philosophy to fight the organized power of modern society went
home to Ensal's heart.
The night passed and dawn found him yet pacing his room. His mother
summoned him to breakfast, but the all-night agony of his spirit had
robbed him of an appetite. The mail man's whistle blew, announcing the
morning's mail.
"I hope I will get a letter that will turn my thoughts into another
channel."
Such was Ensal's solemn soliloquy. How little did he dream of what was
in store for him. Going to his front gate he received the mail. To his
great surprise, the handwriting on one envelope seemed to be that of Gus
Martin. He quickly tore this letter open and read its contents. He
looked around and about cautiously, as if to see if any one was
observing him. He crumbled the letter tightly in his hand and started
toward the house, when he began to sway to and fro. His head grew dizzy,
he tottered and fell. His mother, who had been observing him through
the window, suppressed an incipient scream that almost escaped her lips,
and rushed to her son's side. She had seen the effects of the letter,
and her first act was to attempt to gain possession of it for the
possible protection of her boy. But even in his swooning condition he
clutched the letter with so powerful a grasp that she could not wrest it
from him. She now cried aloud for help, and neighbors came to her
rescue.
Ensal was borne into the house, his mother keeping in close touch with
the hand that held the letter. After some effort he was restored to
consciousness, and his first words were,
"The letter! The letter! O my God! the letter!"
"You have it, my boy. It has never left your hand," said his mother.
"Thank heaven!" uttered Ensal fervently.
When Ensal seemed to be nearly restored to his normal state the
neighbors retired.
"Mother, ask me not why, but prepare my things. I must leave America,"
said Ensal, in a tone so forlorn as to deeply touch the mother's heart.
Drawing near to Ensal she threw her arms around his neck and looked into
his eyes as if to read his soul.
Upon this holy scene where troubled son and anxious mother meet we will
not obtrude, and so step lightly out of the room.