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UNFETTERED.
A NOVEL.
by
SUTTON E. GRIGGS,
Author of "Imperium in Imperio," "Overshadowed," "Dorlan's Plan," etc.
Nashville, Tenn.:
The Orion Publishing Company.
1902.
Copyright
By Sutton E. Griggs.
1902.
_DEDICATION._
_While a last beloved sister
MARY,
Was, with patience and fortitude, awaiting the
slow but certain tread of the Grim Reaper,
she spared strength enough to read, from
beginning to end, "Overshadowed,"
that came to greet her ere she sped
to the home of the departed.
Were she mindful of happenings on the
earth to-day the author of this volume would
be sure of at least one sympathetic reader.
To her memory "Unfettered" is
affectionately dedicated._
_THE AUTHOR._
* * * * *
"The chains that bound the body * * were as tender
chords of mercy compared with the shackles that gyved
his mind * *."--_Kelley Miller._
AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
On a sad occasion in days gone by, the people of the United States were
called upon to deal with the Negro's woes, and in the haze of battle there
arose to thrill the hearts of men a Fort Sumter, a Bull Run, a Gettysburg,
and, at last, an Appomattox.
Since those pregnant days, in spite of a seeming retrogression in some
quarters, there has been a steady, unbroken march of the Negro in an upward
direction. One day our great nation that once dealt with the Negro's woes
will be summoned to deal with his strength, to kindly accept or finally
reject _all_ that he can do.
* * * * *
As the day of final adjustment is inevitable, it is wise for all of us who
love our country to make a study of the internal workings of a race now
shaking itself loose from the death sleep of the ages.
It is the aim of "UNFETTERED" to lead the reader into the inner life of the
Negro race and lay bare the aspirations that are fructifying there.
Those who come to these pages in quest of pen pictures of either angels or
demons, are not likely to find what they seek, for our story has to do with
human beings, simply. That is, we should say, with the exception of--but
you will make your own exceptions when the tale is fully told.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. AN ANGLO-SAXON'S DEATH 9
II. "A NEW KING ... WHICH KNEW NOT JOSEPH" 15
III. A FALLEN MAN SHOOTS 22
IV. THE CLANS GATHER 29
V. BREEDS TROUBLE FOR AFTER YEARS 37
VI. AN ACT OF WHICH NOBODY IS PROUD 46
VII. A MAN AGAINST A REGIMENT 54
VIII. THE HINT NOT TAKEN 62
IX. DORLAN WARTHELL 70
X. CUPID SHOULD BE MORE CAREFUL 73
XI. A STORMY INTERVIEW 78
XII. MORLENE AND DORLAN 83
XIII. A WHOLE CITY STIRRED 92
XIV. BLOODWORTH AT WORK 101
XV. HARRY BECOMES A TOOL 106
XVI. A WOMAN AROUSED 111
XVII. CLANDESTINELY, YET IN HONOR 121
XVIII. WHO WINS? 126
XIX. THE SCENE SHIFTS 134
XX. THE BYSTANDERS CHEER 142
XXI. TO BEGIN LIFE ANEW, AS IT WERE 149
XXII. EXCUSABLE RUDENESS 153
XXIII. A STREET PARADE 160
XXIV. GOING FORTH TO UNFETTER 169
XXV. TONY MARSHALL 179
XXVI. A MORNING RIDE 185
XXVII. THEY FEAR EACH OTHER 189
XXVIII. "O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?" 194
XXIX. IN THE BALANCES 201
XXX. THE TELEGRAM 207
DORLAN'S PLAN.
PAGE.
FOREWORD 219
WHERE THE TROUBLE ARISES 223
OUR PROBLEM 225
THE INSPIRATION OF THE OPPOSITION 226
STILL IN THE BALANCES 228
HE WHO HAS HITHERTO FOLLOWED CALLED UPON TO LEAD 231
REVISITING THE ORIENT 233
CLASPING HANDS 234
RENOVATION 237
WHERE TO BEGIN 239
"THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME" 240
RELIGION A FACTOR 244
TO WEAR WELL OUR CROWN 245
IN THE UPPER REALMS 247
"OF MAKING MANY BOOKS THERE IS NO END" 249
WE EAT TO LIVE 251
LITTLE AFRICAS 253
"YE HAVE THE POOR WITH YOU ALWAYS" 254
THE WINDS HAVE VEERED 255
"THE FIELD IS THE WORLD" 256
WHERE THE GALE BLOWS FIERCEST 257
WITH THE HEN GOES HER BROOD 265
THE PROBLEM OF THE OTHER MAN 266
OUR LAST FOE 269
MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD 271
THE END DRAWETH NIGH 274
CHAPTER I.
AN ANGLO-SAXON'S DEATH.
Gently the midsummer breezes rustled the green leaves of the giant oaks and
towering poplars that stood guard over the Dalton house, which, as though
spurning their protection, rose majestically above them and commanded a
splendid view of the Tennessee fields and woodlands, stretching far out on
either side of the leisurely flowing Cumberland.
The subdued whisperings of the winds, their elf-like tread as they
cautiously crept from tree top to tree top, tended to create the suspicion
that they were aware of the tragedy which their mother, Nature, was so soon
to enact within the walls of the house around which we now see them
hovering.
In a sumptuously furnished room of this magnificent structure, Maurice
Dalton, the present owner thereof, lies dying; battling heroically yet
losingly in that last, inevitable conflict which he had been summoned to
wage with the forces of decay. The head of this dying Anglo-Saxon rests, in
these its last moments, on the bosom of Aunt Catherine, an aged Negro
woman, who was his first and loving nurse in infancy, and has been his one
unswerving friend and worshipper in all of his after life.
On former occasions, when disease had drawn him to the edge of the grave,
so skillfully did Aunt Catherine second the recuperative work of nature
that he was led back to life and health. Now that her healing art has
failed her, she sits heartbroken, and, like Rachel weeping for her
children, refuses to be comforted. No mother ever loved an offspring with
greater intensity than Aunt Catherine loved "Maury," as she called him.
Near to Aunt Catherine stands Lemuel Dalton, a nephew and the sole
surviving relative of Maurice Dalton. Tall, slender and well featured, he
was an interesting figure at any time. His firm, gray eyes give evidence of
great grief over the approaching death of his uncle, although the death of
this uncle is his only known means of an early escape from poverty.
At the foot of the bed on which Maurice Dalton lies, stands Morlene, a
beautiful girl just budding into womanhood. She is a Negro, although her
very pleasing complexion is so light as to give plain evidence of a strong
infusion of Anglo-Saxon blood.
A wealth of lovely black hair crowning a head of perfect shape and queenly
poise; a face, the subtle charm of which baffles description; two lustrous
black eyes, wondrously expressive, presided over by eyebrows that were
ideally beautiful; a neck which, with infinite regard for the requirements
of perfect art, descended and expanded so as to form part of a faultless
bust; as to form, magnificently well proportioned; when viewed as a whole,
the very essence of loveliness. Such was the picture of Morlene, who, once
seen, left an image that never again passed from the mind of the beholder.
Morlene's bosom is just now the abode of many surging emotions. She views
in a dying and speechless state the person who alone on earth knows the
secret of her parentage. Maurice Dalton had promised to impart this
information to Morlene at some time, but has delayed doing so until now it
appears to be too late. Add to the fact that Maurice Dalton is carrying to
the silence of the grave the information so earnestly, passionately desired
by Morlene, the further fact that he had been her support, protection, and
sole dependence from earliest infancy. So keen had been his interest in
Morlene that only his known piety saved him from the suspicion that he was
her father.
In addition to the sense of personal loss that Morlene is to sustain, she
must contend with her grief over the approaching death of a man whose
sweetness of soul and fatherly care had won from her almost a daughter's
love. With hands clasped like unto one supplicating, she strains her
beautiful eyes, as if, in her solicitude, to watch the soul along the whole
distance of its flight into the great unknown.
Standing here and there in the room are distinguished white neighbors,
intimate friends, ready to testify that the noblest Roman of them all is
passing away.
In an adjoining room, still other white neighbors are recounting in
undertones the many noble deeds performed by Maurice Dalton. Huddled
together under the trees in the yard to the back of the house are the
Negroes of this and other plantations, who, with woeful looks, peer
anxiously in the direction of the "big house," eager for news as to how the
battle was going. The vitality of Maurice Dalton was surprisingly great,
and he grappled with this "last of foes" far longer than had been deemed
possible. Probably it was his unfulfilled promise to Morlene that caused
his spirit to linger here so long after it had received the final summons.
Morning wore away into the afternoon. The air grew humid and signs of
coming rain multiplied; yet the Negroes stood their ground, determined to
be as near as possible to their beloved landlord in the supreme moment.
Dark clouds which, ascending from the horizon, had been curtaining the
skies, now passed beneath the sun, intercepted his kindly rays and
journeyed onward until not a patch of blue was anywhere to be seen.
Excitedly the lightning displayed his fierce glance in the disturbed
heavens, first here and then there, and the occasional mutterings of the
thunders were heard.
The Negroes at last mustered sufficient courage to make the attempt to have
Maurice Dalton to die, if die he must, in what they regarded as the ideal
manner. Any Negro that could die "happy," die in the midst of a frenzy of
joyous emotions, was deemed by the mass of Negroes as assured of an
entrance into heaven. In order to produce this condition of ecstasy, they
would gather about the bedside of the dying and sing such songs as were
calculated to deeply stir the emotions of the passing one. They now
concluded to use their singing upon Maurice Dalton. Leaving the shelter of
the trees they all drew near to the house and stood under a window of the
room in which lay the dying man.
In plaintive tones, low, timorous and wavering at first, then louder and
bolder, in sweetest melody, they sang:
"Swing low, sweet chariot,
Cum fur ter carry me home;
Swing low, sweet chariot,
Cum fur to carry me home."
Ofttimes as a boy Maurice Dalton had stood on the outer edge of Negro open
air camp meetings and had heard, with deep emotion, this chant; and as the
music now comes floating into his room his paroxysms cease, a smile plays
upon his face which, though wasted, is handsome still.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright in his bed. "Hush!" said he, feebly waving his
hand, as he turned his ear in an attitude of listening. "Did they say the
chariot had come?" he enquired of the weeping Aunt Catherine. Casting a
faint look of recognition on those who stood near him, he fell back upon
the bosom of Aunt Catherine--a corpse.
The wild cry of anguish that escaped the lips of Aunt Catherine told its
own story to the Negroes in the yard. The singing ceased and they turned to
go. Tears were falling from their eyes, and Nature, as if in sympathy,
began to weep also. In after days the minds of the Negroes oft reverted to
the darkness and gloominess and utter dreariness of the day when Maurice
Dalton died.